Fallout Equestria: Rules of Engagement

by Greenhorne

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Alternate Universe, Original Character, Adventure, Crossover, Human, Gore
Length: 26048

A Marine in Afganistan is transported to Equestria only to find a post-apocalyptic wasteland.

Once upon a time, on the not-so-magical planet Earth, there was a US Marine who signed up to defend his country. He was assigned to a fire team, the fire team assigned to a squad and the squad assigned to a platoon. Together they defended the area surrounding a Forward Operating Base in Afghanistan from insurgents. If only it were that simple.

When lone Marine is transported to Equestria he finds a post-apocalyptic wasteland. With no orders, no resupply and seemingly no hope of return, he sets out to find what brought him here, and why.

Strong Language Warning: He swears like a Marine.
Disclaimer: I'm not a Marine

What do readers have to say about this story?

"[T]his has to be the dumbest sounding plot I've ever heard of. But my god do you take that and fuck it in its ass ... Its just so real and witty and genuine that the whole premise actually works!" ComprehensiveBrony

"Yes, it's human-in-Equestria, but it's good. ... the action scenes had me sitting on the edge of my seat" Tebee

Cover by me, background stock by DarkDragon774

Published 2012-04-10 01:34:21 UTC
Last updated 2019-11-02 15:07:55 UTC

Chapter 1: Of New Wars and PipBucks

Disclaimer: I am not, nor have I ever been associated with the military of any nation, nor do I have para-military training of any kind. I have never handled a firearm, been shot at, or watched someone die so I can’t claim to understand what it’s like to be a Marine . As should be obvious by now, the protagonist of this story is purely fictional. His opinions do not reflect the official position of the USMC, nor any member(s) thereof, and his mannerisms are not an accurate portrayal of any particular Marine, nor Marines as a group.

That said, this is not Call of Duty. I will try my utmost to keep the military aspect of this story grounded in reality. I’ve done my research and I will strive for technical accuracy, if I make a mistake, please, call me out on it.

Disclaimer 2: This is a fanfiction based on Hasbro’s My Little Pony, and Kkat’s Fallout: Equestria. This fanfiction is strictly non-commercial, the rights to any pre-existing characters or settings belong to the copyright holders, please support the official releases.

Special thanks: to my editors tebee, RobG Mull, et. al., my pre-readers, my readers in this thread, the several armed service members who critiqued my work, and the folks over at the spacebattles forum, without all of whom this story would be a mess of technical and grammatical errors.

Once upon a time, ~~in~~ on the not-so-magical-and-actually-quite-fucked-up ~~land~~ planet ~~of~~ Earth~~questria~~, there ~~were two sisters~~ was a US Marine who signed up to defend his country. He was assigned to a fire team, the fire team assigned to a squad and the squad assigned to a platoon. Together they defended the area surrounding a Forward Operating Base in Afghanistan from insurgents. If only it were that simple.

Chapter 1: Of New Wars and PipBucks

“As a soldier, you can be sent to any area of the world... you could find yourself alone, in a remote area – possibly in enemy territory. This manual provides information and describes basic techniques that will enable you to survive and return alive, should you find yourself in such a situation.” Preface, US Army Survival Manual

"– and so I said, 'chicken nuggets? Are you crazy!?'" Exclaimed Jackson.

The two Marines in the Humvee’s back seat roared with laughter. I'd missed the setup so the joke didn't really work for me. I did crack a smile though. Heh. Oatmeal.

That’s right, I’m a Brony. Not that that’s a secret. There are no real secrets in the platoon. Relying on each other for your lives seems to make things like our TV preferences seem somewhat insignificant. So, despite some ribbing (no Jackson, Bronyism is NOT covered under “don’t ask, don’t tell!”), it was accepted just like Andrews’ bottle cap collection, or Jackson’s wild exaggerations of his teenage adventures. Hell, it gave us something to talk about, and when you’re stuck patrolling the same patch of dirt for eight months – anything – is better than talking about the weather. Let’s have an example conversation:

“Hot today isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. Just like it was when you asked yesterday. Just like it has been for the last four months. So when you come up to me tomorrow, and you ask me, ‘Hot today isn’t it?’ my answer’s gonna be: it’s still freakin’ hot, and we’re still in a fucking desert.”

“How hot do you think it is?”

“I hate you.”

My short brown hair was plastered to my head beneath my combat helmet, a few beads of sweat pooling around the follicles creating an itch I’d learned to ignore. Gold-tinted Oakley sunglasses rubbed against the chinstrap while shielding my eyes from occasional blasts of light when the sun was unobstructed by cliffs. Ear plugs hung on a cord around my neck. According to SOP s written by some rear echelon motherfucker they were supposed to be inserted whenever I left the FOB, but seriously? Fuck that. I’d rather hear the enemy coming than die with intact eardrums.

Some people wonder whether humvees are comfortable like the civilian versions. They’re not. Mind you, when you’re wearing eighty pounds of combat gear in a hundred and ten degree heat, comfortable is not a term which is thrown around much. Humvees are utilitarian beasts, and when it’s a choice between a more comfortable seat and an extra fifty pounds of armor on the doors, I know which one I’ll pick. The seat. Man, fuck armor. Standard armor already stops seven-six-two’s, and if you get hit with an RPG you’re fucked anyway. It’s an anti-tank weapon, and no matter how much armor you bolt to a Humvee it’ll never be a fuckin’ Abrams! Damn PoG’s don’t think like that though. “Hur, der Marines ‘er tough, they c’n handle be’in uncomfortable!”

Yeah, of course, until it comes back and fucks you in the ass when you jump out into a firefight and can’t run straight.

Andrews was listening to my rant and peeked down from the gunner’s turret.

“Maligning the armor?” Asked Andrews with mock incredulity. “Oooo, tempting fate now aren’t we. Next you’ll be saying you’re two weeks from retirement!”

It was difficult to tell how serious he was being. We joke about fate and superstition, but at the same time we all have our rituals, the things we do just to appease lady fate. Little things, stupid things. Andrews wears a cross around his neck that I’d never seen before we deployed, Jackson listens to the same song, every day at the same time; even the Sergent is not immune. He stirs his cereal three times before eating, no more, no less. And me? I have my Twilight Sparkle: A little blind bag pony that stays in my pocket, where my nocs (night vision goggles) used to be, before they broke (dust proof my ass). We believed in luck, yet mocked the very idea of it - the mind’s way of dealing with what we can’t control.

“Fuck retirement, only way I retire in two weeks is in a bodybag,” I retorted. “I plan on a long and illustrious career of being shot at, blown up and unappreciated in some backwater country.”

“That why you re-enlisted?” He asked more seriously.

“What would I do as a civvie?” I deflected, “Get some shitty-ass customer service job and work it for the rest of my life? Fuck that shit, I’m a Marine.”

The first Humvee in the convoy exploded. Or at least the front of it did. Supersonic metal fragments pinged off our windscreen.

"IED!" someone yelled.

In the movies, this is where everything would go into slow motion. Real life was not so forgiving. Everything happened nauseatingly fast. No time to think, only react. We skidded off the road in a cloud of dust. I threw myself out of the Humvee, but – blinded by the dust cloud – I missed my footing and fell on my face. Tasting dirt and a trickle of salty blood from a split lip, I rose up into a crouch. I'd managed to keep a hold of my rifle. I could hear rounds being fired, impacting sand and metal. AK's. At this distance my armor would hold, but that didn't mean shit unless I got hit in the chest.

Goddamnit where were they! I scanned left. There up on the cliffs.

"Ten o'clock," I yelled, "up high!"

"I got more at three o'clock!" called Jackson, "looks like they're dug in!"

I fired my M16 ineffectually, wondering why the fifty wasn't firing. I looked back and was met with a sight that, upon reflection is horrifying, but at the time was just numbly accepted. No time for feelings. Most of Andrews' face had been blown out by a shot to the back of the head.

"We're too exposed," yelled the Sargent, “get to the cliffs, Pearson, you first, now, COVER FIRE!"

That was me. As my fire team fired off rounds, I sprinted forward for the first piece of cover I could find and dove into a convenient alcove in the rocks. Something wasn't right. I looked more closely and my blood ran cold. There was a wire sticking out of the ground.

"Secondaries!" I yelled, as I threw myself as far as I could back out into the street.

The explosion followed. Focused by the rock walls it threw me like a ragdoll, shrapnel tearing into my left leg.

I hit the ground. Hard.

-x-

When I awoke, it was cold and dark. Really dark. Thick clouds blocked both the moon and stars. Strange weather for summertime Afghanistan. I guess me and Jackson could finally have a meaningful discussion about the weather. Were was that guy anyways? And why had I chosen to sleep outside? We were supposed to return to the FOB...

Panicked, I scrabbled in the dark until my hand brushed over a familiar, calming shape.

This is my rifle, there are many like it, but this one is mine. Without me, my rifle is useless, without my rifle, I am useless.

An adage endlessly repeated by Boots and considered ‘stupid’ by veteran Marines, it nonetheless provides an idea of the bond between a Marine and his weapon, and helped bring me out of my near panic. As any Marine would tell you, anyone unfortunate enough to loose his rifle would likely experience a sensation not unlike excreting a number of standard masonry blocks. For those of you who have consumed MREs, this will require little imagination.

My head screwed on tight and pulse almost returned to normal, I let my training kick in.

Step one was figuring out my condition. Besides my leg, I didn’t feel particularly injured. I clearly wasn’t restrained, and seemed to be outdoors, so I probably wasn’t captured by the enemy, a fact that my loaded M16 seemed to confirm.

Step two was figuring out my location. Listening to the surrounding, I couldn't hear anything to suggest other people, or any other possible danger, only the faintest sound of what may have been a stream. Listening to the darkness did little to quell my nerves though: I had done my share of night watches, and there was something wrong here, the ambient noise here was . . . different somehow. Even the air smelled . . . off. Still, besides a general wrongness that grated at the back of my skull, my location seemed secure, and I wasn’t going to learn any more sitting in the dark.

I switched on the barrel-mounted flashlight, the powerful beam cutting through the darkness, finally allowing me to see my surroundings.

I recognised nothing. The Humvees, even the wreckage was gone. The cliffs were all wrong. Hell, even the dirt was wrong, it was soft and fine, completely unlike the coarse, sandy grit that filled my boots.
Were the hell was the rest of the Platoon? They couldn't just have left me behind! I pulled out my radio and turned it on, cycling through the different military channels... nothing. That wasn't too surprising; the range on those things is only a few miles. I put out a few calls, but I wasn't about to hold my breath.

Having learned all I could without resorting to anything drastic (like moving) I carefully placed my rifle down and removed the flashlight so I could get a better look at my leg. Luckily the shrapnel wound was not as serious as I’d feared. As I bandaged it, I noticed something bulky under my left sleeve. It was so comfortable that I hadn't noticed it up till this point. Rolling up my sleeve revealed some kind of wrist-mounted computer. A small emblem read 'PipBuck 3000'. Weird name.

I was hesitant to press the 'on' button in case it turned out to be packed with explosives. In Afghanistan, paranoia saves lives. My curiosity won out however after determining there was no way it was coming off without the rest of the arm. After all, someone had gone through the trouble of putting it on me while I was unconscious. If they'd wanted to kill me they'd have done so already.

The monochrome display lit up amber and revealed a map. Wow, retro. Suddenly my vision flashed, preventing me from examining the map. When it came back I could see a compass in the corner of my vision. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Some kind of retinal projection? From my wrist? I take back what I said about 'retro'. This was more advanced than I thought physically possible.

I noticed one direction was marked differently from the rest. Remembering the map on my wrist, I looked down and ... da fuck? There was a dotted line going from what I assumed was the “you are here” marker to a place called 'Ponyville'.

Since when do Afghans name their towns in English? Someone was having a joke. That or I was in some kind of coma dream. I still couldn't rule that out, though I couldn't quite bring myself to believe that. For now, this was real.

-x-

You’d probably think that as a Marine I’d feel right at home operating alone in what could potentially be enemy territory, that as a veteran of two wars I’d be ready for this. You’d be wrong. Sure I had some training, but I was a Rifleman, not Rambo. I lived and fought alongside my four man fire team, and most of the time with the other two fire teams of the squad backing us up. I hadn’t been truly alone in months and psychologically it took its toll.

With no idea where I was relative to… anything, I figured I may as well follow the nav point. I doubted I was within any kind of search area, heck, it was probably a different country. Equestria came to mind but I dismissed it out of hand. Ponyville wasn’t that unique of a name, and this didn’t much look like a magical utopia to me. If it was, I’d be giving Rainbow Dash a piece of my mind. This weather was ridiculous. I laughed at my own joke, but really I was freaking out. So I fell back on my training.

Right, first things first. Inventory; M16 A4, ACOG scope, flashlight, PEQ-15 laser eight 30 round mags FMJ 5.56mm, M203 under barrel grenade launcher with three 40mm grenades, multi-tool, med pack, standard combat knife, vest, helmet and ballistic goggles, sunglasses, hydration pack, two energy bars, a (useless) radio, an (equally useless) map of the area we had been patrolling and a mission report logbook. To my surprise this was all listed out in my (I guess I can call it mine, it is attached to me after all) PipBuck. Next to each of them was a value in ‘caps’. Whatever those were. The most intriguing thing was the entry for my armor. ‘Improved Modular Tactical Vest (Human Variant)’. ‘Human Variant’? As opposed to what?

I still couldn’t see much as I worked my way towards the nav point, but the ubiquitous mud I was trudging through seemed to confirm my suspicion that I was no longer in the desert. I swapped out my ACOG scope for the night vision attachment. This meant the sights were no longer zeroed of course, but it’d be good enough for close up work.

Ponyville turned out to be a collection of charred ruins. Only a few buildings were still standing, and even those looked to be on their last legs. No signs of repair either; this town had been abandoned long ago. People had died here. Civilians probably. Who fucking knew really? Truthfully it didn’t bother me. Whoever said “war never changes” never had to worry that any one of the civilians he was supposedly protecting could be strapped with explosives, or been forced to help rebuild a water-pump for a village that may very well harbor the same insurgents who had just sewn the road back to base with IED’s. There were times when a part of me felt it would be easier to just drop a MOAB on the damn villages and let God sort it out; the more rational part of my brain reminded me that ‘most’ of the civvies were decent people, just trying to survive, and that their support was critical to base security.

-x-

Gunshots. In my experience there's one surefire way to tell some 'tough guy' from a Marine. When startled, 'tough guys' freeze, their reflexes deadened over the years to demonstrate they have no fear. Marines duck. Fragments of brick and mortar sprayed from a nearby wall as it was struck by a bullet that I had little doubt was meant for me. I ducked behind said wall, and considered my options. My adrenaline kicked in full force and I felt like I could go hand-to-hand with a fucking bear!

I took a deep breath and controlled myself. I switched the safety off on my rifle, setting it to single shot with a satisfying ‘click’. I had to PiD (positively identify) the shooter. I did *not* want to be responsible for shooting some over-zealous young ANA (Afghan National Army) soldier, even if he had taken a shot at me. It was very dark after all, and he could probably see by my silhouette that I was armed.

The ANA was... not the most professional of armies. The training we gave them was, by necessity, limited, and they had a somewhat alarming tendency to get high on hash and opiates prior to or even during battle. This wasn’t to say they were useless. Far from it. We had to count on the fact that eventually they would be able to keep the peace if we were to have any hope of ending this war.

On the compass (which still kind of freaked me out, being superimposed onto my vision) a red bar seemed to indicate the position of the shooter. Useful, but it still didn’t tell me his intentions. Deciding that popping my head out into view of what I was ninety percent sure was a sniper was probably not conducive to staying alive, I explored other options.

“US Marines!” I yelled out, “Identify yourself!”

There was no response. I racked my brain tried to remember the phrase in Dari, the local dialect, but was drawing a blank. Fuck. We’d always relied on the interpreters to interact with the locals. ‘US Marines’ should have been clear enough anyway. It’s not like that needed a translation.

I had an idea. In daylight, it would have been far too obvious, but in this darkness it just might work. I was betting the sniper wouldn’t have the benefit of night optics. Pulling my combat knife, I stuck it into the mortar between two bricks close to ground level. Making as little sound as possible, I removed them, creating a hole large enough for the rifle and its scope. I lay prone behind the wall poking the barrel through the gap and activated the night vision scope. With a high pitched whine the area beyond the wall lit up in fuzzy green detail. What I saw shocked me, which was quite a feat considering my already elevated state. What I could see was, without a doubt, a facsimile of Rarity’s Carousel Boutique. Who had built it, and why, was beyond me, but right now I had more pressing concerns. I had to identify the sniper before he spotted the faint glow given off by my scope. I flicked on the infrared laser, the sight wasn’t zeroed, but the laser was. Zeroed at 100 feet mind you (it was offset from the barrel), so if the shot was further, I’d have to adjust my aim right. The invisible beam glowed brightly through the scope cutting a swath through the air as I looked for my target.

Now it wasn’t unusual to see horses in Afghanistan, nor even for insurgents to fight from horseback, so when I looked through the scope and saw something vaguely horse-shaped I wasn’t particularly perturbed. As I looked closer however, I saw two things wrong with it. The first was that it was wearing some kind of armored barding, which quite frankly was ridiculous. Insurgents could rarely afford armor for themselves, let alone their horses. The second, and more important problem, which I had to believe was some kind of trick of the light, was that it was riderless, and somehow levitated a rifle above its head.

I took my eye away from the scope and sure enough, I saw what could be the faint glow of telekinesis around the rifle, about 50 yards away. Which meant... which meant that... fuck. Which meant I was seeing things. The rider’s clothing must be deflecting light peculiarly, messing with the scope. Not being completely insane, as far as I knew, I wasn’t willing to entertain the other option that was staring me in the face. Still, I had PiD’d the target. He was definitely armed and, even if I couldn’t see him, from his armaments he was definitely not NATO or ANA.

“Cleared hot,” I whispered to no one, not used to working alone.

This wouldn’t be the first person I’d shot, but it still wasn’t something I enjoyed. I went over my rationale again. If the rider was going to see my scope glow, he would have fired by now. I was well aware that he was probably not alone, and if I fired I would give away my position as surely as sending up a flare. The fact that I couldn’t see anyone else through the windows was making me nervous, they could be trying to flank me. Could I slink away without being seen? Probably not. There was a lot of open ground before the next piece of cover from the sniper.

What was my evidence for him being hostile? He’d seen a lone, armed figure walking towards his camp and taken a, literal and figurative, shot in the dark. Hell of a reason to kill somebody. I might have done the same thing! Fuck this war. Why couldn’t this shit ever be black and white? Give me a bunch of God-damned Nazi zombies to kill any day.

The RoE (rules of engagement) were clear. I could shoot him now, and I was probably going to have to. Completely inappropriately, a thought crawled into my head as I felt a piece of hard plastic dig slightly into my chest. What would Twilight Sparkle do in this situation?

Probably go insane like me, and start thinking about imaginary characters. Fuck. No. I knew what she’d do. She wouldn’t do anything. If her friends were here, she would take the shot, to protect them – just as I had in the past. By myself... by herself, she wouldn’t do it because she would never be able to live with herself afterwards, even if it was self-defence.

But I wasn’t Twilight Sparkle.

I calmed by breath, exhaling slowly and aimed roughly half a meter above the horse’s head, where the rider’s chest should be.

I was a Marine, a trained killer.

I pulled the trigger.

My rifle cracked authoritatively, the vibration knocking the scope out of focus.

“Piece of crap!” I muttered, smacking it with my gloved hand, “Never see this shit in Call of Duty.”

The scope sputtered, cutting to black, then blurred back into focus. I looked and observed... no effect on target. The rifle was still right where it was before, appearing to float amid the blackness. Seemingly without warning it started firing wildly. A trained individual should have been able to spot my muzzle flash; the insurgents were many things, but highly trained was not one of them. At this rate he’d run out of ammo before he even saw me. Right, I thought, new plan. Wait till he starts to reload, then shoot the horse and run. It had always seemed kind of slack to me to shoot enemy animals (a favorite tactic of the insurgents was to strap IED’s to pack animals, the safest way to disarm them being to detonate from a distance), they didn’t have any choice after all, but if it was him or me, it was going to be him.

I shifted my aim slightly lower, keeping the laser on the horse’s head. I might as well make it quick. I saw the mag drop from the – supposedly – floating rifle and took the shot. This time the effect was immediate: the rifle clattered to the floor, followed shortly by the horse. The gunman was still nowhere to be seen.

I rose up into a crouch and started moving away from the wall, but then I saw another red bar on my HUD. This time I knew what it meant. I spun left and flicked on my flashlight. My assailant was shocked by the sudden brightness, but not as shocked as I was. There was no denying it now. This creature, charging at me with a rusty machete clenched in its teeth, wearing blood stained leather armor, was a pony. Not a small horse but an, honest to god, fucking FiM, G4 pony. The enormous eyes and bright blue coat left no doubt in my mind, leaving me to wonder what substance I could possibly have consumed to make me trip balls like this. Fortunately I didn’t have time for a protracted questioning of my sanity, my survival instincts forcing me to accept instantly what would no-doubt have taken hours of intense introspection to come to terms with; I was in Equestria.

The pony resumed his charge. While the RoE was strict, (not that I was under any obligation to follow it at this point), charging a US Marine with a rusty knife was still more than enough to get you shot. That said, the RoE was far from my mind as I fired two rounds into his center mass.

He stumbled and fell, a pool of blood spread out like an oil slick in the blackness of the night. My Little Pony, laying in a pool of blood. The show was just about the only thing in my life that I had considered wholly pure and innocent. It would be a lie to say I’d never imagined living there. Of course something so pure could never survive contact with me.

Three more red bars, behind me this time. Eyes in the back of my head, I was starting to like this PipBuck more and more. Flicking off my flashlight I sighted my first target, and fired.

The shot went low, the green pony stumbling as her foreleg shattered. Another gunshot rang out, but not mine. Fuck that hurt. The round hit me in the shoulder, fortunately it was of low caliber and my armor did its job.

I rounded on the shot’s location and put a round through the offending pony’s head. I turned to face my last opponent, but he was already upon me. At the last second I think he may have realised the folly of going up against a creature twice his size in hand to hoof combat, but any such thought was cut short as I brought the butt of my rifle down on his head. There was no cute little staggering around like you might expect from a cartoon pony. Instead he hit the ground like a sack of bricks.

Footnote:
SPECIAL: James Pearson
Strength: 7[+]
Perception: 8[+]
Endurance: 6[-]
Charisma: 4
Intelligence: 6
Agility: 6
Luck: 4

Perk added: Marine – Your years of combat experience grant you +1 to Perception and Strength as well as a 25% accuracy bonus when wielding rifles or semi-automatic pistols.

Trait added: Human – Your dexterous hands give you an extra 15 points each to repair and survival, but you suffer -1 endurance and -50% movement speed over open ground. Due to your alien appearance equine characters may flee from you or attack without provocation.

Author’s note: FoE (as a fanfiction), and Fallout (the games) do not exist on the Earth the protagonist comes from.

Author's note 2: I've started a new degree, I've got a new job at a hospital and I'm a voice actor in the Equestria Softworks Fallout 3 mod. Not-giving-a-fuck levels have finally reached high enough that I'm re-releasing this chapter as version 1.5, in preparation for the release of chapter 2. You can eventually expect a a chapter 1 version 2.0 where I find a way to remove the night vision scope and fix another bunch of errors, but this won't change the story overly much (probably).

Chapter 2: A Wasteland Sunrise

Chapter 2: A Wasteland Sunrise
“You should also avoid grazing animals with horns, hooves... Move carefully through their environment. Caution may prevent unexpected meetings.” US Army Survival Manual; entry on Dangerous Animals

Sunrise in Afghanistan was a beautiful thing. The clear air and mountainous horizon made for a spectacular transition from a star strewn night to a fiery orange star-burst with rays cast across the land, shimmering in the airborne dust.

Sunrise in the Equestrian wasteland... not so much. With the light diffusing through thick clouds it was difficult to spot where exactly the sun even was. It was better than stumbling around in the dark, but it did little to lift my spirits.

The light also made it easier to examine the small pile of equipment I had acquired from the three dead ponies. I didn’t know how many more there were in the ruins, so I just took what I could easily carry, a few weapons clipped onto my webbing and the concussed pony draped over my shoulders. He owed me some answers, but with my luck, and knowing what little I did about medicine, knocking someone out for longer than a couple minutes was a probable death sentence.

The mare I had shot in the leg had, to my surprise, managed to escape without so much as a trail of blood, but I doubted she would live long without medical attention. It brought back memories of Afghanistan, following blood trails when you finally get lucky and hit one of the bastards that had been shooting at you for days and weeks. It was amazing how fast my brain had labelled these ponies ‘insurgents’. Just like that they were symbolically responsible for killing my teammates and any hesitation I’d had in shooting them was gone. Of course that was all well and good in the heat of battle but now I had to wonder. I mean, I’d been shooting at them, they were shooting at me; were they just defending themselves? Had I just committed a massacre? Who knows what kind of mythical beast they mistook me for?

Fuck it. They shot first. I defended myself. This wasn’t on me. I really wished my team was here, not for physical protection, but just to have someone to reaffirm that I’d done the right thing. That I’d had no choice.

The weapons were all modified for pony use. No. Not modified; they were built this way. The rifle’s trigger was contained in a mouth grip and the stock was bent downwards, no doubt to meet with an earth pony’s shoulder. There was a scope on the side of the rifle, but the lenses were cracked and useless. The other weapon, a pistol, was similar. The slide and barrel were pretty standard, except that the sights were mounted on the side. The mag and receiver were mounted in the regular vertical fashion, but the trigger and mag release were on a complicated looking mouth grip sticking out from the left of the weapon. It looked like it might actually fit in my mouth, but I wasn’t about to risk breaking my teeth with the recoil. The pistol used 9mm rounds and the rifle, .308’s. Odd that they used the same round sizes as us, including the both imperial and metric measurement systems. No doubt that said something very interesting about their pre-war history, but mostly it was just convenient. I decided to keep the pistol - I would have to figure out how to fire it by hand, but at least I had some more ammo.

The ‘enemy combatant’ I had tied up began to stir. When I had removed his armor and saddlebags I noticed that his green coat looked matted, mangy and smelled foul; his cutie mark appeared to be a fractured skull. Not what I was expecting from a ‘pastel grass-muncher’. Hopefully I was about to find out what happened to the utopia I once knew and loved.

The pony looked at me and his irises contracted in fear. I suppose he hadn’t gotten a good look at me last night. He struggled against his bonds before bearing his yellowed teeth in a rather adorable attempt to intimidate me. Despite the circumstances, ponies still looked cute.

“What’s your name?” I asked, starting the interrogation with what I hoped was an innocuous question.

I half expected him to be surprised that I could speak ‘Equestrian’, but if he was, he wasn’t showing it. I suppose most creatures in Equestria could speak it, so it wasn’t that much of a stretch.

“I’ll kill you!” he yelled, starting to struggle again.

Ok, this was going to be harder than I thought.

“Fair enough,” I responded, “but right now you’re not in a position to kill anyone. Answer my questions and I’ll let you go.”

“I’ll hunt you down,” he threatened, “I’ll rip out your guts, and keep your head as a trophy.”

Was there a real risk of him hunting me down? Maybe, but people had been trying to kill me since I set foot in Afghanistan. Equestria too, now that I think of it. The information this prisoner could provide would be invaluable to me, and hey, if I noticed him following me I could just shoot him. Technically it violated RoE, but fuck it, I wasn’t about to get killed trying to uphold directives from a different world.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take. Answer my questions and I’ll let you go. What is your name?”

“Skull.” he answered menacingly. I mentally rolled my eyes, probably could have guessed that.

“Why did your... group, attack me?”

“You were in our territory.”

Great, so they were just some gang, squatting in the ruins.

“When did Ponyville get destroyed?”

He looked at me as if unable to believe my stupidity. “It was always this way.”

“You mean as long as you can remember? What happened, was there a war?”

“Have you been living in a bucking stable! The great war? Zebras blew us to pieces with balefire warheads.” He paused, then grinned cruelly, “ ‘least we got them as good as they got us.”

“Balefire warheads?” I questioned.

“Ya know, the megaspells that turn cities into radioactive craters?”

A nuclear war, mutually assured destruction. I’d have loved to know what drove peace loving ponies to that, but my hostage didn’t seem like he’d be an accurate source of historical information.

“How did ponies survive?”

“How the buck should I know, now are you going to let me go?”

I asked him a few more things of tactical importance, locations appearing on my PipBuck map as he described them.

True to my word, I let him go. There was a standoff once he was untied, but after a few seconds he turned and galloped away. I watched him through my scope until he disappeared back into the ruins.

-x-

Re-evaluating my status with my new intel confirmed my earlier suspicions. Fucked, would be a good descriptor. I’d been transported to an Equestria that was at least as much of a hellhole as Afghanistan with no backup, I had less than a day’s worth of food and water, and I was going to be stuck here for an indefinite length of time.

Well at least food and water were something I could work on. Those insurgents must have had supplies cached somewhere, even if they were just raiding caravans or whatever. I couldn’t feel particularly bad for stealing from them, they no doubt had stolen most of it from civvies to begin with. Or so I moralised as I took the last bite of my energy bar. The best approximation of its taste would be boiled potato with the consistency of chewing gum, but I savoured it nonetheless. My last meal from Earth. I didn’t hold out much hope for finding anything better in the wasteland - hell, I’d be lucky to find something I could metabolise. Preserved equine food would probably be based on hay, or something similar. The thought of foods I could metabolise inevitably lead to meat. I shuddered as I realised I could have eaten those ponies.

No. That was practically cannibalism; butchering a pig was different to eating a creature you could have had a conversation with fifteen minutes ago. If it came down to it, I was sure there would be smaller game for me to hunt.

Moving through the ruins in daylight was surreal. The layout wasn’t exactly the same as in the show, no doubt there had between some changes leading up to the war, but it was scarily close. There was no colour. Previously vibrant walls had long since lost their paint, buildings were missing doors, windows, roofs, entire walls; some houses were entirely reduced to rubble. There seemed to be no epicenter, the varying degrees of destruction were more to do with the strength of building materials. A few bomb craters scared the ground, but they weren’t large enough to have caused this level of destruction. My best guess would be that it was mostly fire damage. Knowing that there were WMD’s involved in the war I was surprised that Ponyville wasn’t just one enormous crater. Surely the town housing the elements of harmony would be on the Zebras’ primary target list? Then again, with a state of nuclear readiness perhaps the elements were moved from place to place to avoid them being targeted? Urgh. It hurt my brain trying to reconcile these new facts with my existing knowledge of ponies.

I had seen burnt out villages before. The most off putting thing about Ponyville was that everything was in miniature. Cute right? Maybe, but it presented a significant obstacle to effective close quarters combat. The doorways were at chest level, which would significantly limit mobility within buildings.

I crouched down and entered one of the buildings. Crouched over like this I couldn’t back out easily I would just have to hope I could deal with any resistance head on. Some Vietnam tunnel rat bullshit. Ah well, at least this place wasn’t boobytrapped.

BEEP... BEEP... BEEP...

What the fuck was that? I looked down and saw a metal disk about three inches wide and one inch thick, on top was a flashing button labelled: ‘Disarm’. I didn’t press it. Obviously no one puts a working ‘disarm’ button on top of a landmine. I kicked it down the hallway and threw myself to the floor, feet towards the blast, minimising my surface area.

The explosion was actually quite anaemic, doing some minor damage to the closest wall. It had probably been designed to maim rather than kill. Blow off a foot and a soldier was out of the fight; it took more resources to care for a wounded man than a dead one.

I backed out of the house and reconsidered my options. With the houses boobytrapped, scavenging just got alot more complicated. What did my training tell me? That this wasn’t my MOS and I should get on the radio to EOD. Yeah. That was going to happen.

I caught motion out the corner of my eye and turned to face what appeared to be a floating helmet. It was making a beeline for me, at speed. I’d seen enough car bombs try and run roadblocks that there was no way in hell I was letting this thing close to me. I brought up my rifle and fired once into the ground underneath it, giving it a warning shot purely out of instinct. The floating orb didn’t slow its pace, but it began to bob and weave evasively. I managed to fire another five rounds as it approached me, two shots clipped it, but they must not have hit anything vital. With ears ringing from my own weapons fire, I struggled to make out what the orb was saying as it reached twenty feet. At ten feet, it stopped and I tried to squeeze in one last shot.

Pain lanced through my left arm as it spasmed and threw off my aim. My pipbuck was electrocuting me! It took all my self-control not to just drop my rifle and attempt to tear the the thing from my wrist. I knew it would do no good, that thing was bolted on good and tight. My left arm was rigidly by my side, on the verge of hyper-extending, my right awkwardly trying to aim my M16 pistol grip, braced against my shoulder.

I fired again but the shot went wide, as I pulled the trigger the shock grew to the level of a Tazer, my muscles tensing involuntarily forcing me to my knees. At this distance I could finally hear its message.

“Subject Six,” ordered the orb, taking a position just outside arm’s reach, “cease hostilities at once! Non-compliance will result in termination.”

The fuck? I thought, though I wasn’t exactly in a fit state to speak.

“Your co-operation is appreciated.” the orb bobbed happily, there was a soft click as if the orb were loading another recording, “Congratulations traveller, you have been selected to take part in the first trans-dimensional cultural exchange! At Stabletech we pride ourselves on not just surviving this apocalypse, but preventing the next one!”

The robot’s cheery yet mechanical voice was grating on my nerves. It sounded like one of those radio ads where people are WAY too excited about buying insurance.

“Relevant files have been uploaded to your Stabletech issued Pipbuck,” my Pipbuck beeped, and the orb continued, “if you do not comply, your Security Pipbuck™ is fitted with a failsafe device that will ensure your termination.”

Paranoia justified. I never should have turned this fucking thing on. I had two choices, comply, or try to fight my way out. I didn’t much like being at the mercy of an orb.

I went for my rifle and the damn thing buzzed me again.

“Alright!” I said warily, “I’ll co-operate.”

I shakily stood up, half expecting to be tazed.

“Excellent!” said the orb, “ we’re going to be the best of frie-zzzzzzzzz”

The orb never finished that sentence because I reached out and grabbed it, my other hand going for my knife. As expected, I was electrocuted, but whoever programmed the orb wasn’t smart enough to think this through. With the pipbuck pressed against the orb’s metalic hull the smell of burning plastic emanated from it followed by several pops. It dropped to the ground like a hunk of lead, dragging me with it, as whatever was keeping it aloft cut out.

I hit the ground. Hard.

-x-

There was a soft ringing in my ears and I had the insistent feeling that I was supposed to remember something important, but I couldn’t quite recall what it was. I realised I was laying on a bed. I cracked my eyes open, expecting the light to sear them, but it did not. My whole body felt like it was floating, all my movements occurring in slow motion. I enjoyed the sensation for a time before it suddenly hit me.

The ambush! What happened? How did I get here? I tried to sit upright, but almost immediately there was a hand on my shoulder, pushing me gently back down.

“Easy there Marine,” said a doctor, “you took a hell of a blow to the head.”

“How...” I began, my tongue felt thick in my mouth.

“You’ve been unconscious for two days,” he answered my incomplete question, “you’re in a field hospital near Kandahar.”

“My team?” I managed to say.

“They’ve been waiting for you to regain consciousness,” he replied, “I’ll let them know.”
Just then Jackson walked into the room.

“No need for that!” He said heartily, “We knew it’d take more than a couple pounds of C4 to knock Ponyboy out of action!”

The Sergeant was next. He pulled a chain from his breast pocket, the end of which was revealed to hold a purple pony. One of Twilight’s legs had fallen off, but the most eye catching thing about her would have to be the half inch piece of shrapnel embedded in her side.

“Doc says, if she hadn’t been in your pocket, you might have died,” explained the Sargent, “wear ‘er proud Marine.”

“Oorah sir,” I said with a snicker, still slightly loopy from the drugs I guessed.

“I might have to give the pony show a try,” said a third voice. I knew that voice but...

I looked over and my eyes widened. Andrews.

“B-but,” I stammered, “you’re dead!”

Andrews looked at me with an expression of pain and disbelief, as if I’d just stabbed him. I’d seen it. I’d seen him get shot, right through the head! A single drop of blood ran down Andrews’ face. Followed by another, and another, until a gaping hole opened up in his face, to the point that I could see right through to the other side. He just stood there as if nothing was wrong while his face melted away.

I yelled and screamed for people to help him, but they ignored him and just looked at me with concern.

No! This isn’t real. This can’t be happening. I jumped out of the bed and started running, I smashed through a pair of double doors into an emergency room. I could see the exit, another pair of wooden double doors, with windows set into them revealing that is was night time.

Seemingly out of nowhere, two MPs stepped out and blocked my path. I raised my arms to defend myself... and realised I was wearing my PipBuck – what the hell? While I had been looking at my PipBuck, the MPs seemed to have frozen in place. I stopped running and lowered my arms. The MPs took this as a sign of surrender and relaxed slightly. I glanced over at the doors, and caught my reflection in the glass. It wasn’t human. It was a pony with a bright blue coat, stained with blood, gripping a rusty machete. It doesn’t even seem possible with a tool clenched in his teeth, but somehow he grinned at me.

There was a metallic clink, my eyes opened and the dream world faded almost instantly, only to be replaced by an actual pony, green this time, holding an actual knife towards my throat.

-x-

“Mhf suf ev woove gevv oo.” said Skull, unintelligible through the knife grasped in his teeth.

My eyes widened, my heart raced, knife training was the first thought in my head. Like an amateur he was holding the knife a distance from my throat instead of pressing against it. That would give me time to react. Still, he was a pony, and none of my training was designed to combat that. Strangely enough we didn’t practice techniques against knives held in the mouth. Go figure. I had another idea.

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, masking my fear, “you went to the zoo?”

“NVO, EI SEV EI WUVV GEVV OO!” He yelled, louder, but no more understandable, pointing the knife menacingly.

“You’ve lost a shoe?” I questioned again, feigning ignorance, “well I’m not sure that I can help you with that...”

He spat out the knife and got right in my face, his breath smelled of rancid meat - euch. Did I even want to know?

“NO!” He spat, “I SAID -”

No one will ever know what he was trying to say because I grabbed him by the throat, smashed his head against a rock, and stabbed him in the eye with the discarded knife. He shuddered once, then died, the knife buried to the hilt in his freakishly huge eye socket.

Fuck. I took a few deep breaths and waited for my hands to stop shaking. I glanced over at the body and felt nauseated. Shooting someone was one thing, but this? With my bare hands? Both my gloves were covered in blood, but my left was charred, fibres fused with the burned hand beneath. That damn orb thing. I poked at it with a finger and winced. Some of the pony’s blood had gotten into the open wound. I hoped there were no pony-human diseases, but knowing my luck I would probably die of pony AIDS.

I could almost hear the sergeant. Stow that shit Marine. Check for more attackers, be ready. My rifle was still attached to my webbing. Safety off, round in the chamber; despite the circumstances the realisation that I had been sleeping with a weapon that was ready to fire felt like a gut punch. I probably should have found shelter, or at least moved to a more defensible location, but the ringing in my ears had come back, and I was unsteady on my feet. I stumbled along until I reached a wall that was mostly intact and slumped down with my back against it. I scanned the surrounding area with my rifle, wincing as I gripped it with my burned hand. Nothing moving.

I set the rifle down and began the delicate task of removing my glove. I took a hold of one finger and gently pulled, gritting my teeth as the glove’s fibres dragged against where they were fused to my hand. Jesus fucking Christ that hurt. There was no fucking way the glove was coming off that way. I pulled my combat knife and carefully cut around the fused areas, only stabbing myself twice with the ridiculously sharp blade. The rest of the glove came of easily enough, leaving four pieces of cloth fused to my palm. This was going to suck. I folded out the pliers from my multi-tool and gripped the first piece, took a deep breath and -

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!” I screamed internally as I ripped fabric out of the wound. It bled profusely as the burnt skin was torn apart. I repeated this for the rest of the pieces, rinsing the wound with water from my hydration pack, then bandaged the hand as tightly as I could manage. The bandage became stained red, but after a couple minutes of applying pressure, the bleeding appeared to stop.

I took a sip from the hydration pack, and realised it was empty.

Well that was just fucking great.

Footnote:
Level Up
Medicine: 25

Chapter 3: Unknown Knowns

Chapter 3: Unknown Knowns
“If the local people are known to be enemies, or are unknowns, make every effort to avoid contact and leave no sign of your presence... If, after careful observation, you determine that an unknown people are friendly, you may contact them if you absolutely need their help.” US Army Survival Manual; entry on Making First Contact

I kept watch until sunrise at 0530. In future I was going to have to conserve battery on my night scope. I had at best a couple hours left and I did not fancy my chances of finding AA batteries in the Equestrian wasteland.

After two days in the wasteland my food supplies were exhausted and I was beginning to seriously consider drinking some of the radioactive water I had found in Ponyville.

Fatigue was no stranger for me, but it hung on my consciousness with a constant weight that couldn’t quite be ignored, sleep debt combined with the time of day and dehydration worsened the effect. I knew it would get better before it got worse. On the schedule today: find some uncontaminated water. The bottle I had scavenged from Skull’s saddle bag made my pipbuck click like a geiger counter and – though my Nuclear Biological Combat training was limited – ‘Do Not Fuck With Shit That Is Radioactive’ seemed to be one of the main lessons to take away from it. DNFWSTIR for short. We do love our acronyms.

Flicking through the menus in my pipbuck had revealed an audio player, though I could only find one file for it to play. It was labeled “A_Message_from_Stabletec.wav”. Stabletec... those were the bastards that orb had been rambling about. It was probably worth a listen. I hit the oversized play button. A literal retina display, but no touch screen. Seems weird until you remember that it was designed to be used by hooves.

“GREETINGS TRAVELER, MY NA-” The machine blared through a tinny speaker. I mashed the stop button and gripped my rifle tighter, looking around for anyone who might have heard the noise. I saw nothing out of the ordinary, released the breath I had been holding and mentally kicked myself for being so jumpy.

“Jesus Christ man, what are you going to do if you see a mouse, have a fucking aneurysm?” I muttered under my breath.

Alright, so the pipbuck doesn’t transmit directly to my ears. I found the volume dial, turned it to one quarter and hit play again.

“Greetings traveler, my name is Scootaloo and you probably have no idea who I am or where you are. I’d like to start with an apology. If you’re listening to this, that means the transfer was successful and the translation spell is working. I hope you can forgive us for pulling you away from... whatever it was you were doing back in your dimension. The truth is, we need your help. If you’re listening to this, then I’m dead; the bombs fell and Equestria is no more... Celestia help me, I pray that no one ever has to listen to this... I know, we had no right to take you from your world but... *sigh* I had better provide some context.

As I said, my name is Scootaloo and I run... ran a company named ‘Stabletec’. Equestria was at war, on the brink of total annihilation by devastating new weapons called megaspells, each one capable of destroying an entire city. Stabletec’s goal was to build underground shelters to preserve pony life after the apocalypse. If my calculations are correct then two hundred years should have been long enough for most of the magical radiation to dissipate. If not... well I just hope your species isn’t as sensitive to radiation as ours. Most of the stables should have opened by now, so there should be ponies around. They need your help.

We decided it was pointless to save ponykind, only for us to destroy ourselves again. Pony nature led us inevitably to this end. Our petty squabbles magnified and repeated ad infinitum until the resulting hate set the world on fire. As a true outsider, an alien as it were, you can provide perspective. Think of it as a cultural exchange. You tell us about your people and we'll tell you about ours. Perhaps it is this exchange of ideas that will allow us to regain our peaceful way of life and restore friendship and harmony to Equestria.

You have no reason to trust me, but I have placed several 'quests' in your pipbuck, which I hope you complete as an ambassador of your species. The last quest is to return home. If you want to skip to that I won’t stop you. Hopefully the machine is still intact. If it’s not... well I’m sorry, but you’re on your own. I hope you can forgive us.

May Celestia have mercy on us all.”

Scootaloo was an adult and president of a company, so what? Twenty, thirty years after the show? Then another two hundred after the apocalypse. They were all dead then. If the ‘megaspells’ hadn’t killed them, time itself would have finished the job. Celestia, Luna, they could still be alive. They would have to be, right? The sun still rose and set; but how could they let this happen? A way home though. That was the real message here. According to the quest the machine was somewhere in Canterlot, but that was a trek I was in no condition to undertake at the moment. I needed supplies, rest, and preferably some intel. Supplies first, I wasn’t going to last much longer without a fresh water source.

After a few more fruitless hours of searching the ruins, luck seemed to finally go my way. As I scanned the perimeter I caught sight of a blip on the horizon and brought up my scope.

In the distance I saw a caravan working its way up the cracked road. It consisted of two covered wagons pulled by what looked to be horribly mutated cows with two heads. I chuckled at the idea of ponies driving a cart rather than pulling, it just seemed so... backwards. Along with the cart drivers, two ponies with guns hanging off saddles flanked the first cart, three more ponies walked in between the first and second carts, and two more behind the second. Nine ponies in all. I couldn’t determine gender from this distance, dressed as they were. I took my eye away from the scope. Of course there could be a dozen more inside the carts, but I doubted that was the case. More likely they were filled with supplies for their journey. Hopefully they had some spare water and food to trade. I could probably trade some ammo or grenades... although I supposed that with hooves the grenades would only be workable by a unicorn. Despite what you see in the movies you can’t pull a pin with your teeth. It’s the first thing Boots try when they get their hands on a training grenade and seldom does anyone try it twice.

The more immediate problem was how to approach the caravan without scaring the ponies to death. Or being perforated by them. Both poor outcomes. They didn’t look like raiders, at least judging by their improvised cloth and metal armour. Their clothes were dirty but free of bloodstains. That and they just didn’t have that crazed look in their eyes.

Approaching with my rifle raised would surely get me shot, but coming out with my hands up didn’t seem like such a good idea either. Would they even understand the gesture? Even between cultures on Earth such gestures weren’t universal. Put your hand up to tell an Afghani vehicle to stop and he’ll assume you’re asking him to come closer, with often lethal consequences. When dealing with animals, raising your arms was supposed to make you look larger and more intimidating, the exact opposite of what I wanted. Ponies were obviously sentient, but fear of giant bipeds with their arms raised, ready to strike, was likely instinctual for beings living in a world that I seemed to remember contained bears.

Making it somewhat easier was the fact that they spoke English, so I could at least yell at them. I just had to get within shouting distance and I could try to explain myself.

-x-

I shook my head in disbelief that I had put myself in such a situation. I knelt in the middle of the road with my rifle laying on the cracked road surface in front of me, my hands raised up next to my head. The caravan approached and stopped thirty meters from me. I had picked this spot so that it would be difficult for them to go around me.

The two caravan guards trained their rifles on me. Not only that, but the front most cart driver gripped some kind of shotgun in his mouth, and all the other ponies hefted weapons of one kind or another.

“Don’t shoot!” I called out, “I mean you no harm. I want to trade.”

I had briefly considered ‘I come in peace from planet earth for all mankind’, but I didn’t want to fuck up first contact with some pointless grandstanding, even if I was the first human to speak to aliens. The ponies were remarkably silent, or at least I thought so until I realised that with their mouths gripping their trigger bits, they were incapable of speech. A couple of the ponies appeared to be shaking in fear. The guard pony on the left spat out his bit before yelling back.

“I don't know what the buck you are but we don't want what you're selling,” he yelled back, “stay down and back slowly away from your weapon or we will open fire.”

“Please, I just need some water,” I called back, “I can trade ammunition or weapons, I’ve got some grenades.”

“Back away or we will open fire,” screamed the pony, “this is your last warning!”

His voice cracked near the end. He was trying to act tough, but he was obviously struggling to maintain the façade. Honestly, where did they get these mercs? I wasn’t about to surrender my rifle to them.

“Okay,” I said slowly and clearly, “I’m backing away, but I’m taking my rifle. Don’t shoot.”

Somepony in the crowd fired a rifle. It hit me in the chest and I felt a plate crack as I collapsed forward, wheezing for air, pain flaring across potentially broken ribs as I breathed in, gritting my teeth. I reached my hand forward and grabbed ahold of my rifle. Even with the pain in my chest I felt better with its weight in my hand.

That was apparently the last straw for the ponies. After a moment of shocked confusion they all opened fire. I threw myself off the side of the road, rolling down the embankment. I could hear bullets flying past me despite the ringing in my ears. I was quickly coated in mud and I tasted dirt. I grunted in pain as I rolled over the fractured plate in my vest. I reached halfway down the hill before I heard more gunshots. I spread my arms and legs to arrest my tumble and I slid to a stop. I could see ponies silhouetted on top of the hill and I returned fire. Like ducks in a shooting gallery. They didn't seek cover, with those saddle-mounted weapons it would be nigh impossible to aim at the enemy without facing them with their whole body. Tactically they were more akin to tiny vehicles.

I looked around for cover, but found myself pinned down by their fire. Instead I lay as flat as possible, presenting as small a target as I could. I fired a few rounds indiscriminately, hoping to drive them off the ridge. They didn’t budge. I sighted my first target and fired, catching one of the guard ponies in the shoulder. He collapsed onto his knees, but to his credit, he kept firing until my second round hit him in the chest. A mare ran to him and tried to give him something from a bottle. Alcohol maybe? For the pain? I moved my attention to another rifle pony, hitting him in the neck. I kept sighting and firing, my spent brass splashing into the watery muck beside me. It had started to rain, icy water running downhill and soaking me in seconds.

One by one the ponies fell. Not all my rounds hit their targets, but enough did. One of the ponies charged down the hill at me – I smashed in his face with the barrel of my rifle and he tumbled down past me.

The remaining ponies started to back up, so I began to advance, seizing the advantage. I stood up, trying to see targets over the ridge. I wasn’t killing people, I was removing threats. Four were left, then three. The remaining ponies finally had the sense to take cover behind one of their wagons, for all the good it would do them. I dropped to the ground on the edge of the road and sighted under the wheels of the cart. I fired six times and hit three hooves, two ponies dropped to the ground and I put rounds into their sides. The last pony bolted out from behind cover but wasn’t fast enough. I tagged him in the chest and flank as he ran. He stumbled and skidded to as stop.

I tasted blood in my mouth and spat crimson into the dirt. I got down low, looking between the wheels of the wagon. One of the ponies lay still but another continued to gasp for breath, eyes rolling in terror as it clutched at a severed hoof. A wound in its side had missed heart and lungs, denying it a quick death, but it wouldn't last long. I thought about putting it out of its misery, but that wasn't how we did things. Instead I approached the wagon and kicked the weapon away from its head.

The rain was so heavy now that it was starting to affect visibility, water dripped off my helmet and mud coated the entire front of my body. I could taste the grit as dirt was washed down my face and into my mouth. I cleared the wagon, moving to the second one. It was clear too. Now they were all dead. That was just fucking great. Some great fucking ambassador I was. With the threats removed I was allowed the luxury of feelings again, and I was beyond pissed. I went back to the one pony who was still barely breathing. I grabbed it but the collar of... whatever the fuck you call a shirt when a pony is wearing it, and lifted it up to my height with one hand, staring it in the eye.

"What the fuck was that, huh?" I yelled, water flying from my mouth. Despite the amount of pain it was in from the gunshot wounds the pony still flattened its ears to its head, wincing at the volume, "Are you listening to me you piece of shit? I ask for some fucking water and you take a shot at me!"

The pony screwed its eyes shut, turning its head away from me. I shook the pony and it groaned in pain from its injuries.

"Open your eyes." I ordered, "I said OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES cock stain or I will end you! LOOK. Look around you. This is on you. You did this. This is not on me. You and your little pony friends fucked with the wrong person and now you're all fucking dead."

At some point during my rant the pony had in fact expired. It went limp and stopped struggling. I threw the lifeless corpse into the mud in disgust. It rolled a few times before ending up awkwardly on its side, enormous eyes remaining open as it lay there in the mud.

My wet hair beneath the helmet was beginning to itch. I tore the helmet off and hurled it into the side of the cart. My rage was not sated in the least and I wanted to murder the next thing I saw.

What the fuck were those ponies thinking? My eyes were wide, still searching for targets. My hands shook. My teeth were set. I glared at my traitorous shaking hands, but the harder I tried to keep them still, the more they shook. I was breathing heavily through my nose, like a predator on the hunt my sense of smell grew more acute, I could smell the mix of blood, piss and cordite that marked a battlefield along with the overpowering damp smell of mud.

There are some people who are addicted to combat, and while I don't count myself among them I can understand how it happens.

You know that rush you get when you play in a championship game? It's nothing like that. Instead imagine it’s the middle of the night and you're bare ass naked clinging to the roof of a speeding car.

At levels this high, adrenaline feels like the best drug you could possibly imagine. That pain in your foot from being on patrol all day? Gone. Worries about your girl back home? Don't even rate. Blood and gore splattered on your face? It's not an immediate threat to your life so who gives a fuck. You can run like Usain Bolt and punch like Muhammed Ali. Your body feels so light it's like it's not even there. The air feels thick enough to bite on... oh and you're so scared you feel like you're about to shit your cammies.

Coming down off that sort of high is not fun. Your muscles begin to ache all over and you feel as twitchy as fuck for hours afterwards.

That was the state I was currently in. The Corps has ways of dealing with combat stress, and no I don't mean psychologists and all the other POG shit, they have their place but it’s not on the battlefield. No, it's more about just talking it out with your squadmates. Talking about how fucked up shit was, supporting their decisions, it re-enforces your normality. It allows you to put your actions and experiences into context.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" I yelled at the lifeless pony lying there with glazed eyes. "Huh, you worthless sack of shit. Where's your magical friendship now?" I kicked it in the head and heard its jaw snap as it slid through the mud, leaving a trail of blood that was soon washed away by the rain.

Alone. I was alone in this wasteland. I'd killed every living thing I'd seen. I slumped down against the side of the wagon with my rifle across my knees, overcome by a sudden wave of fatigue. After everything I’d put it through, my body just wanted to lay down here and rest. I shivered as my clothing became completely saturated.

I breathed in deeply, ignoring the sharp stab of pain from my fractured rib. Tilting my head back I let the raindrops land in my parched mouth, only to have a message flash into my vision. Having a HUD built into my eyes was freaky enough, but the message itself did nothing to ease my fears: ‘RADIATION INGESTION WARNING: 1 RAD/S - TOTAL EXPOSURE 3 RAD (CONDITION GREEN)’

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” I muttered. The rainwater was radioactive. That made no sense... unless it was washing radioactive particles out of the air, but wouldn’t that mean that the air was... but at what altitude? Fuck. I should have paid more attention in NBC training. Was a ‘Rad’ a lot, or just a little? Green. Green sounded good.

Theories aside, if this rain was radioactive I should really follow the DNFWSTIR rule and find some shelter. I couldn’t just leave the caravan though. Though the encounter hadn’t gone down the way I would have wanted it, the supplies were now mine and I had to get them off the road before raiders got any funny ideas about them.

I took another painful breath and forced myself back to my feet. My body felt weak and my mind fuzzy. I had to set my teeth to prevent them from chattering. I mentally slapped myself, suck it up Marine, you’ve still got work to do. I checked the perimeter for any ponies drawn by the gunfire but it was impossible to make out anything beyond a couple dozen meters due to the heavy rain. I allowed my rifle to hang from its one-point harness and started going through the contents of the first cart. It wasn’t much. In America it would probably have had a street value of about twenty dollars, but in this wasteland I wouldn’t trade it for a ton of gold.

There were a number of crates inside the cart, the first contained a collection of rags. Awesome. Hundreds of uses for them. I could boil them to use as bandages, tear them into kindling, use them as lashing to construct a shelter; I took one and wrapped it around my face. Not exactly a gas mask, but if there were radioactive particles in the air, it should at least catch some of them. I hoped.

The next box contained a few loaded .22 magazines. Not so useful. The gunpowder could be used as an explosive, but trying to open them without the right equipment was dubious at best. In the rest of the cart I found a couple dozen bottles of water, a bunch of tin cans with the labels worn off and sack of oats. I brought one of the bottles up and held it next to my pipbuck. I wasn’t sure exactly how the sensor worked, but it didn’t click so I assumed it wasn’t radioactive. Of course that alone didn’t mean it was drinkable. Any number of deadly chemical or biological contaminants could be hiding in this clear liquid.

I unscrewed the bottle and sniffed it, it was odorless, I dipped my finger in it. No reaction. I dipped again and rubbed it on my cracked lips. Still nothing. I carefully poured some of the water onto my tongue. It was almost tasteless, perhaps a little bit stale. As far as I could tell without a chemist, it was clean water. It could still kill me, but that was a risk I was going to have to take. I chugged the bottle, experiencing sweet relief as it lubricated my dry throat and mouth. I uncapped another and repeated the action. I felt nauseated from the adrenaline, I hoped, and not anything in the water.

Continuing my search, there were a number of canvas tents rolled up with string. I also found a few personal items: clothing, a sketchbook, and strangely, some kind of teddy bear. No doubt intended for some foal’s parents in another town to buy. I had no interest in such things. Survival was my mission here. The rest of the cart was mostly taken up by the scrap metal that, I surmised, was their main commodity.

I saw a glint of white in amongst the boxes and moved a wooden crate to reveal a metal box marked with the unmistakable three butterflies of Fluttershy’s cutie mark. My eyes widened. Something important had to be in this box. The embodiments of the Elements of Harmony would have been important in the war, so who knew what treasures would be considered worthy of affixing such a mark. I opened the latches, a watertight seal popping as I did so, and was almost overwhelmed by the cleanliness of the contents after so long in the muddy wastes; fluffy white bandages, medicine bottles of various kinds, an IV bag with a nuclear trefoil mark read ‘RADAWAY’. Alright, I was going to have to stay clear of that one. I didn’t trust anything with a tri-foil. I closed up the box. Definitely a keeper. Of course it had to be Fluttershy, didn’t it? Her kindness was helping ponies, even from beyond the grave.

I managed to affix the medical box to some molle loops on the back of my vest, creating a crude kind of backpack. I had considered foregoing the heavy box in favor of a lighter saddle bag, but the box was watertight and in the pouring rain the bandages would be contaminated within minutes. I stuffed some of the more useful looking rags into my pouches before tying one of the larger rags into a sling-type bag that I filled with ten of the bottles, which looked to be around twelve ounces each, and a couple of mystery cans. I slung the bag on my right, then grabbed the five pound sack of oats and slung it on the opposite side with the help of another rag.

I couldn’t carry all of the useful items at once, I was going to have to find places to cache these, so I could retrieve them later. I stuffed the canvas from a tent into my left sling bag along with some string and went to check out the second cart.

The layout of the second cart was much the same as the first. I started poking through the first crate when I heard a whimper.

Immediately my rifle came up and I took a step back from the cart. I activated the barrel-mounted flashlight. It was easy to see why I hadn’t spotted it on my first sweep of the cart, but I still mentally kicked myself for my lack of observation. In the back of the cart was a unicorn colt with a coat as black as soot, hiding between the boxes. It bled from a wound to its back, most likely from one of my stray rounds. Fuck. I couldn’t just leave it there. Could I? I mean, it was probably going to die anyway, and I certainly wasn’t in a position to drag around a liability until I found a safe haven.

Logic aside, it was basically a child. I saw a red blip on my compass. Raiders. I looked at the young colt’s eyes rolling in terror. Fuck it.

“Up!” I yelled, lowering my weapon, “Move your ass, before the raiders get here!”

The colt just stared at me.

“On your feet or you're dead,” I screamed at him, “I can’t carry you and the supplies and I’m sure as fuck not going to starve to death to save your worthless hide.”

The colt shakily got to its hooves and jumped down off the cart.

“Now follow me,” I ordered, “and don’t fall behind, because I’m not going back for you.”

Tears ran down the colt’s face, though most were lost amidst the rain. I would have felt for the kid, but I had to get out of here alive before I could care about his feelings.

There were red blips in almost every direction on my compass now, but unfortunately it didn’t show any indication of how far the enemies were. I heard a shot ring out from behind me, but it didn’t seem to be aimed in my direction. Were the raiders fighting each other, or were they really that bad a shot? I wasn’t complaining. With that gunshot my adrenaline was back up and my pain and fatigue were lost to the heat of battle once again, replaced by a fear of every shadow and sound that could spell my death.

I started moving left, towards the edge of the hill. I assumed they were after the caravan rather than me. More gunshots rang out around me over the oppressive static of the rain and the ringing of my own ears. A raider appeared in front of me, sporting a saddle-mounted shotgun. He wasn’t even looking in my direction but I put three rounds into him anyway, continuing to move forward.

I checked behind me and the colt was still there. I was going to get him out. I heard more gunshots and some faint yells of pain. They were fighting over the remnants of the caravan.

I reached the edge and grabbed the colt with my left arm, ignoring his kicking and squeal of shock. I jumped off the edge and slid down with the torrent of water that now poured down the incline. At the bottom of the hill I splashed into a previously-stagnant pool that had formed in a bomb crater. It felt slimy and made my pipbuck click even faster than it had at Skull’s water.

I scrambled to get out of the water. I still had the colt grasped securely with my left arm, the rifle in my right. It was unwieldy and difficult to climb the slope that way, so I set the colt down on the ground.

“On your feet kid,” I yelled over the pouring rain, “time to move!”

The colt remained motionless.

I swore. Just one pony. Was that too much to ask? Could I just find one pony that I didn’t end up killing? I reached down and put my hand to his chest... and felt a heartbeat.

I swore again. Now I had to drag this pony out of here, cut my resources in half... if he lived anyway.

The shaking of my hands was starting to get even worse and my teeth were beginning to chatter. It wasn’t just the adrenaline. I was starting to go into hypothermia, my energy reserves were at nothing and my saturated clothing was sucking out more heat than my body could replace.

I...I needed a fire, somewhere to dry out my clothes, and food... and sleep. I looked down at the comatose pony and sighed. Moving him was probably not the best idea in terms of first aid, but neither of us was going to last long out in this weather. I picked him up and draped him over my shoulders like a fox scarf. At least this way I could still operate my weapon if need be. The small pony’s body heat warmed my neck somewhat. Thank God for small mercies, right?

I climbed out of the muddy crater on legs that felt like rubber. If my whole body hadn’t been numb they would no doubt been screaming at me. My thoughts had to fight through the warm and inviting fatigue that enveloped my brain as I trudged ever onwards. I lost all sense of time, each step, each dull vista blending into the next. I felt as though I was watching from behind my eyes as my vision began to tunnel. At some point the sun had begun to set.

Off in the distance I saw a white pony, her wings open to envelop me, iridescent in the gray expanse as rain continued to fall in sheets. I had stopped shivering. A feeling of warmth permeated my body as I kept walking towards it.

I tripped and fell down an embankment, landing in some kind of cave... alright, not so much a cave as a rocky overhang, but I was out of the rain so I wasn't complaining. I laid the colt on the dry ground and felt for his heartbeat, my fingers on his chest. It was something.

All of this happened in a dream-like state, I was drifting in and out. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw flashes of things that weren’t there. Like waking from a dream, each transition between fantasy and reality was disorienting, each dream jumbled and half-forgotten. I bit my tongue to try and stay awake, but it didn’t help. Harvesting some branches from a bush growing near the edge of my new shelter. Setting up the tinder, striking flint with my knife, trying to start a fire with the damp wood. I kept dropping the flint from my numb hands. Eventually I succeeded in getting it lit, but even I’m not sure how many tries it took.

I removed my vest and winced as I felt the bruise where the bullet had struck. There wasn’t much I could do for broken ribs. I turned my attention to the colt and saw that he was shivering violently, blood slowly leaking from the wound on his back. Taking a closer look it wasn’t that deep. Serious, but not immediately life threatening. I applied a strange purple liquid that I assumed was anti-septic. I probably should have been more cautious, but at this point I was essentially running on auto-pilot. I bandaged the wound before moving on to my hand, unwrapping the soaked bandage and applying more of the purple liquid before rebandaging it.

The small fire wasn’t producing much heat and the pony continued to shiver. I opened my shirt and picked up the pony, hugging him to my chest to share our body heat. The colt’s wet coat felt warm against my skin but smelled almost like a wet dog. I lay down next to the fire, trying to position myself as close as possible without risking anything catching alight. The colt had stopped shivering, I hoped because of my body heat, and not because he was dying. I wasn’t planning on going to sleep just at that moment, but my much abused body had other plans. Sleep hit me like an M203 to the face.

Footnote: Level Up
Perk added: Celestial Guidance: You're not sure if it was a hallucination, or something more, but it seems something up there wants you to survive. +10% chance to find useful supplies when health is less than 50%.

Medicine: 30
Survival:45

Author's Note

Yep, I'm saying fuck it and posting again - I don't get much time to write these days.

I'm posting this against editorial advice. All mistakes are my own. Thanks to Tebee for reviewing this chapter even though I posted chapter 2 without their input, and thanks to my friends over at SpaceBattles.net for the help.

Chapter 4: Oorah Devil Dog

Chapter 4: Oorah Devil Dog
“In the beginning we were three tribes, but none could survive in isolation, so we were afraid.

From fear grew distrust, and when famine struck distrust became resentment and anger. Pony fought pony with hoof and magic and steel, we fought until our land was barren; our families starved while we spilt blood on the snow of eternal winter. Only once we found the will to unite under one banner, to put aside our differences and work together for the good of all ponies did the famine finally break. It was not the blade that saved us, it was friendship.

When the Alicorns appeared and took command of day and night we lost a piece of our control, and we were afraid. Unicorns became loyalists and separatists; and magic once again became a tool of violence.

It was not spells that saved us, it was friendship.

When the nights grew dark we did not look up at the heavens in wonder, instead we stared desperately into the shadows surrounding us. Darkness hid the unknown, so we were afraid.

When the nightmare came upon us it was not the might of the Celestial guard that saved us, it was friendship.

We have come so far, my little ponies, from tilling the barren fields of our beginnings. The weather now bends to our every whim; the sun and moon themselves live among us; industry, ingenuity and magic have put us more in control of our destiny as a species than at any other time in our history. We have medicine to cure the sick, agriculture to feed the hungry, shelter for the weary and education for seekers of knowledge. The megaspell, our greatest achievement in magic since unicorns first banded together to raise the sun, has the potential to end all injury and disease. My little ponies, we have bested death itself and yet we are still held back by fear. Fear of those who are different, fear of the unknown. Through fear we have perverted what could be our greatest triumph into a tool of unimaginable hate and destruction, a looming spectre that could end our species with the touch of a single hoof.

Now we hunger for more than food and we are terrified it will come to an end. The Zebras have something we need, we can no longer exist in isolation and we are afraid. We are lied to by wartime propaganda and believe with all our hearts and minds that we fight for freedom and self-preservation. We celebrate dying for Equestria as the greatest achievement our young ponies, our sons, our daughters, can strive for. Our greatest creations of magic, ingenuity and industry are used to spill the blood of people who are just as scared, just as lied to and just as capable of friendship as we are. We have sacrificed our privacy and freedom of speech to Morale and Image for the sake of safety and security, yet we live with the constant fear of total annihilation and we threaten the same to prevent it. We are so afraid, so blinded by eyes taken for eyes that we have forgotten our beginnings. We have forgotten what made this nation strong.

This nation was not forged by the steel of blades, nor conjured by great magics, it was not bound by will of a single pony, nor even the pursuit of a single goal, this nation was born in the bonds of friendship; and it is through friendship that we will prevail!

The path to friendship will not be easy. We must forgive the unforgivable, forgo vengeance for our fathers and sons; mothers and daughters lost to this great war. We must never again surrender to the tempting embrace of fear, to don the armor of hate and brandish the sword of nationalism.

My little ponies, we can do better. We must do better. We will do better. Let not the fire of our hatred sweep through our lands; allow the warmth of friendship back into your hearts and we shall follow the only path that leads to true victory, for you see my little ponies; friendship. Friendship, never changes.”
Excerpt from a speech by Weathered Scroll, Historian and Pony Peace Advocate; Speech delivered shortly before his assassination by a lone, crazed gunpony.

I awoke to find myself on a wooden floor, sighing as I realised that I had once again woken up with no idea where I was. I patted my chest where my rifle should have been and my breath caught in panic as I realised it wasn’t there. Fear gripped my guts, my body tensing like a coiled spring.

“Fuck!” I exclaimed as I tore my eyes open, sitting upright. I went for my knife, my hand closing on air. It was missing too. I bared my teeth almost instinctively as I prepared to fight hand to hand with whatever had disarmed me, hands forming into knives of bone and flesh. I stood up to my full height, eyes searching for an escape route from... Twilight’s library?

I finally took in my surroundings. There could be no doubt of where I was, but it looked wrong. It was... perfect. No damage at all. It could have been a set from the show. Crisp sunlight, unfiltered by clouds, streamed in through the windows, landing on clean, brightly colored surfaces that were at odds with my recent experience of filth and violence. Only then did I notice the two mares in front of me, a lavender unicorn and a butter yellow pegasus. The unicorn was projecting a shield that they were both sitting behind.

I eyed the pair warily. “What's going on? Who are you and how did I get here? Where is the colt I was with?" My eyes shifted between the pair as I talked, occasionally darting around looking for an exit or potential improvised weapons. My brain felt sluggish as my training fought to keep me focused. Something about this whole situation seemed off.

The unicorn answered first, turning to reveal Twilight’s cutie mark on her flank “I-I’m Twilight Sparkle, personal student of Princess Celest-”

“Bullshit." I interjected, “Twilight has been dead for two hundred years. Try again, but how about the truth this time?" The imposter Twilight broke composure slightly at my accusation and the momentary widening of her eyes let me know I was right. If only my head would stop buzzing, I was sure I could figure out what this charade was about.

The unicorn quickly changed her expression to one of mild indignation and annoyance. The yellow pegasus seemed to be trying to hide her face behind her pink mane. There was no mistaking who they appeared to be.

“I’m not dead!” The unicorn exclaimed, “Why would you... how do you even know who I am?”

"How would I not know you? Well, the pony you are posing as, anyway. Actually, you probably wouldn't believe me if I could find the words to explain myself." Something about all of this was otherworldly, like I wasn't quite connected to what was going on. It made thinking straight rather difficult. "Wait, forget all that. Where is the injured colt I was with? What have you done with him?"

“There was nopony with you when we foun-” she began. I quickly stood up and covered the distance separating us. For some reason, this little act of theirs was really starting to piss me off. It may have just been the fuzziness in my head, but I was done with small talk. I brought my knife hand down on the pink energy shield, sending a ripple of force across its surface, collapsing it almost instantly. The unicorn gasped, falling to the floor and clutching her horn in pain.

The yellow mare finally emerged from behind her mane, eyes suddenly wide. My body seized up, our eyes locked. Slowly, I sank to my knees, unable to resist the influence of ‘the stare’, not that I wanted to anymore. I knew it was really her now, but I had no way to signal my surrender. I felt the unyielding force eating away at my mind. Flashes of white disrupted my vision, I could smell burning... hair and flesh. The flashes became explosions, buildings on fire, my hearing receded to a constant whine. The library spun and I found myself looking at the ceiling, but I didn’t remember falling. Pain exploded through the back of my skull, my mouth opening in a silent cry, lungs refusing to put forward sound to match.

“F-fluttershy, p-plea-” I managed to mutter, just before another wave of pain struck. My body spasmed and the back of my head collided with the floor.

-x-

My head pounded, my ears rang, and my face was painfully numb from sleeping with a rock for a pillow. I groaned as I shifted position, my body making its aches and pains known to me. Normally I was a light sleeper, but that morning left me wondering what hard-ass motherfucker I outdrank last night to wind up passed out in a cave.

“W-what are you?” asked a little voice, breaking through the ringing in my ears.

The sound of a child’s voice was an instant indicator that something was very, very wrong. I winced as I drew breath. Definitely some broken ribs. Nice. Grabbing ahold of my rifle, I sat up, immediately feeling light headed and nauseous. Gritting my teeth, I suppressed those feelings as much as I could and surveyed my surroundings. I saw the colt and almost did a double take as my memory finally kicked in. I was still in the wasteland.

The colt was levitating the raider pistol, pointing it straight at me. For fuck’s sake, can anything in this world not point a gun at me? I patted one of my pouches and relaxed slightly. I was really hoping I wouldn't end up regretting helping this kid. I wasn't feeling up to fighting a wounded child, even if they were of a different species. I was fairly sure I could make the shot if I needed to, but I wasn’t about to risk it if I could talk my way out. Hey, all I had to do was explain to a child why I had to kill all of his friends and family. How hard could it be? I looked into his bizarrely huge eyes and saw my grimy visage reflected in the glistening orbs that somehow managed to convey at once both innocence and righteous fury.

“I-I,” I began, stopping mid-sentence once I realised that I had nothing to finish it with. My body was awake, if battered; I was ready to operate my rifle, follow shouted orders, run to the aid of my comrades, but forming a coherent sentence seemed to be beyond my current capabilities. Mentally drained, I fell back on the universally applicable word utilised by all Marines when they need to fill a sentence gap.

“Fuck.” I concluded.

The colt looked confused, but still angry, cocking its head to one side.

“What’s a ‘fuck’?” It asked hesitantly. If I could have facepalmed without releasing my grip on my rifle, I may have broken my nose right then and there. As it was, I just started laughing, and once I started, I just couldn’t stop. What the fuck was I doing here? I asked that question enough back in Afghanistan, but here? In a world of fucking magical talking ponies? Looking after a kid? I must be crazy.

The colt’s expression had returned to outright fury, “Hey!” he yelled, “It’s not funny!” He let out a scream of frustration and I heard a click as the colt pulled the trigger on an empty chamber.

I stopped laughing abruptly, bandaged hand shooting forward and grabbing the colt by the throat, pulling him into a chokehold before he had a chance to react. His magic cut out from the shock and the pistol dropped to the ground. I lifted him up to eye level, his legs flailing uselessly in panic. I didn't want to hurt him, just send a message, so I stopped squeezing short of completely cutting off his airway.

“Two things: first, before you use a weapon you should make sure it’s loaded,” I said grimly, pulling a 9mm round from a pouch on my vest, “and second, if you ever point a weapon at me again, I will kill you.”

I dropped him, but as I was still sitting down there wasn’t far for him to fall. He landed on his rump and scrambled to get back to his hooves. To his credit, he continued to face me down. The tough guy look he was trying to present was ruined by the very childlike way he began to cough. I almost felt bad as he rubbed his sore throat gently with a fetlock.

"Sorry kid, but if you don't listen to me, there's a good chance you will get a lot worse than that from someone nowhere near as kind-hearted as me. There are three options here,” I stated, “option one, you lead the way to the nearest settlement, I make sure you get there alive and that’s where we part ways.”

The colt eyed me suspiciously, and really, I couldn’t blame him. Would I trust him if the situation was reversed? I almost shook in disbelief at what I’d just done. I’d been choking a civilian, a child. I felt disgusted. How could I just lose control like that?

“Option two, I leave you out here in the wastes with the raiders,” I continued. The colt’s horn lit up and I felt my combat knife move in its sheath, I moved a hand to the knife’s handle, “option three, you try to kill me again and I leave you out here in the wastes with the raiders and a bullet hole in you.”

I felt the knife wrench a bit harder, still not quite breaking the buckle before a spark emanated from his horn and he winced as his magic cut out.

“Why should I trust you?” The colt accused, “You kill ponies!”

Despite the soaking it had gotten, my uniform still bore the stains of pony blood. My head still pulsed with pain, and fatigue was returning now that the rush of confrontation was over. I wanted so much just to close my eyes for a second, but I couldn’t take the chance.

“Look kid, you’ve been dealt a shitty hand, but those are your options,” I explained, “if you can think of another way...”

“Give me a gun.” ordered the colt.

“No.” I wasn't naive enough to not realize the orphan of the people I killed might want to do something about it.

“If you want me to trust you then give me a gun.”

“I don’t need you to trust me and I sure as hell don’t trust you,” I countered, “all you need to know is that I’m your best chance at getting out of here alive. Plus, you’re a child, so that’s a double no.”

“It’s not fair!” He screamed, stomping his little hooves “Why? Why did you shoot us? We were just traders, we never hurt anypony! And you just came and killed everypony you-”

“They shot me.” I cut him off.

“So? You’re wearing armor, you didn’t even get hurt!”

“And how long do you think I would have stayed that way if I didn’t defend myself?”

“You could have just run away!”

“What, so they could shoot me in the back?”

“They wouldn’t!”

“They sure as hell tried! Do you think I like killing people? Do you think I just walk around looking for people to kill?” We were both yelling by this point. All the stress and anger just started to pour out. “They forced me to do this. All I wanted was to trade for some god damn water, but no, you xenophobic little fucks would rather kill a stranger than take a chance. I tried to leave. I tried to walk away. I tried to reason with them. I was unarmed, kneeling on the ground with my hands in the air and they shot me in the chest!”

“You’re lying!” The colt yelled back, “They wouldn’t!”

“They did.”

“It’s not true!”

I sighed, shaking my head. I felt my anger start to ebb at the childish denials. This little colt wasn't who I should be angry with. Yelling at a child wasn't going to do anything but make him upset. “Look, they were probably scared out of their minds,” I reasoned, “when people are scared they do things, things they wouldn’t even consider given a chance to think over their actions.”

“You’re the murderer here. They didn’t kill anypony.”

“Look, if you want an apology, I’m sorry. I wish this hadn’t happened. I wish your parents were still alive, but I had no choice; it was them or me, and I’m always going to pick me.”

How many people’s lives was I worth anyway? A dozen? A hundred? They hadn’t been enemy combatants, insurgents, they were just frightened traders.

“I’m not asking you to be my friend,” I continued, “I killed your parents, I don’t expect you not to hate me. You’re not my prisoner, but you have become my responsibility. I will get you out of here safely, you have my word on that, as little as it may mean to you.”

“But- but,” the colt’s voice dropped to a whimper, “why. It’s not fair I- I can’t-”

He finally broke into tears. He certainly was a brave kid, threatening a dangerous unknown creature, completely alien to this world and his understanding, but he was still a child. I felt my heart crush inside my chest. His cries were all too human and they brought up memories I wanted to forget; tiny fists pounding on my armored chest, cries of abject despair along with words I could guess the meaning of. This time I couldn’t walk away, there was no-one else here to fix this for me.

I wanted to tell him that everything was going to be alright. I had the almost overwhelming urge to hug the crying pony. I don’t really know why, but my instincts told me that this pony had to be protected.

I didn’t hug him. Close physical contact would probably just have freaked him out more. Eventually I settled on placing a hand on his shoulder. He tensed up in shock, but didn’t shy away from the gesture.

My head spun dangerously as I breathed through the pain in my chest, a combination of sympathy and rib fractures. There was a gnawing feeling in my gut which I only then recognised was hunger. As soon as my hand left the colt’s shoulder he turned, as if to leave, but hesitated.

“Please,” I said, “stay.”

“Why should I?”

I thought through the reasons again, trying to come up with something I hadn’t already said. Finally, an idea came to mind.

“I’ll make you breakfast?”

-x-

Breakfast was... well I would have preferred a vegetarian omelette MRE, so that pretty much tells you everything you need to know about it. The can of mystery I opened turned out to be beans. The colt informed me they were 200 years old. I would have balked at this, but hey, he was a magical talking pony so I figured I’d let this one slide. The oats were damp and possibly moldy. I would be lying, however, if I told you I didn’t relish every last morsel.

I got no complaints from the colt either. He just sat there staring at me blankly. Either he was used to such fare or he was too afraid to insult my terrible cooking. I kept the empty can, figuring I could cut it into a hobo stove for next time and hopefully improve the culinary experience. As soon as the colt had decided to come with me, the Pipbuck on my arm had beeped and displayed a new marker: ‘New Appleoosa’. With a compass superimposed onto my vision and a GPS clamped to my wrist, it was going to be hard to get lost.

I fiddled with the device, flipping through its menus. I found what appeared to be a health readout; the chest area was highlighted where my ribs were broken with a frowning pony face beside it. Well, no shit. I was so glad to have a machine to tell me where it hurt.

After the meal, we continued to stare at each other in silence. How am I supposed to make conversation with a child of an alien species? How’s it hanging? Hey, did you catch the game last week? Who’s your favorite pony? Eventually I settled on something that seemed innocuous enough.

“Cloudy today, isn’t it?” I asked.

The colt just stared at me like I was an idiot. That was getting to be a theme here.

“Uh, yeah,” the colt said, tilting his head, “just like every day.”

“During winter, you mean?”

“No, I mean every day,” the colt continued, “the pegasi closed up the sky two hundred years ago.”

“You know, I never actually got your name.”

“You first.”

“Alright,” I said as I broke camp, sparse as our belongings were, it didn’t take long, “Lance Corporal John Pearson, and yours?”

“That’s a silly name,” the colt chided, “What’s a ‘pearson’?”

“It was my father’s name.”

“What does he do?” The colt seemed to be warming up to me, he looked to be practically bursting with childish inquisitiveness. He was leading the way down the road.

“He’s a businessman.”

“Uh huh, yeah,” he looked up at me earnestly, “and, what’s a ‘john’?”

God help me, I liked it better when he was quiet.

“A john is someone wh… it doesn’t mean anything.” I finished quickly.

“That’s dumb,” the colt seemed to have forgotten himself, “what’s a ‘lance corporal’?”

“It’s a military rank.”

“What’s a ‘rank’?”

“It’s,” I began. Shit, how do I explain this? “It’s a special name that tells people whether they have to listen to me or I have to listen to them.”

“Wait, you’re in the military,” he suddenly turned around, “like, in the War? No wonder you don’t know anything, you’re like, a time traveler. Did you ever get to kill any Zebras?”

I sighed and looked him in the eye. Even on a different world people still asked the same damn question. The colt froze after a second, realising what he had just asked. He turned and continued walking, eyes downcast. Tears fell from his face almost silently, with only the occasional intake of breath.

I wanted to tell him that everything was going to be alright, but honestly? How was it going to be alright? My plan was hardly fair. I was just going to take the colt to a settlement and throw him upon their charity. Orphans had enough trouble at the best of times, let alone in a post-apocalyptic settlement. But what other choice did I have? I couldn’t take him with me.

I sighed. Maybe he had some extended family. I hated to think how far out of my way that was going to take me, but it just didn’t feel right. When I thought of him as an alien it made perfect sense to put him back with more of his kind, but now that I had talked with him it was a struggle not to think of him as a human child. I swore under my breath.

“What’s your name, kid?” He looked up in surprise. “I need something to call you.”

He hesitated. “Ink Blot.”

I wanted to approach this delicately, but I couldn’t think of how. “Ink Blot, do you have any family that weren’t in that caravan?”

He looked at me with hate in his eyes. “Why do you care?” he retorted, “Are you planning on killing them too?”

I sighed in exasperation.

“When we get to New Appleoosa, what do you plan on doing?” I asked, “Who are you going to stay with?”

The colt froze for a second, as he came to a sudden realisation.

“I-I don’t know…” he responded shakily, “I have a brother, but I don’t know where he is - he left years ago to try and join a mercenary company.”

I sighed. I still had nothing but the original plan.

-x-

As we walked down the road, I spotted a group of ponies up ahead. They weren’t exactly subtle; six ponies wearing impractically thick suits of plate mail with full face helmets. On their backs were enormous weapons, large enough that they would typically have been mounted on vehicles. Two sported grenade machine guns reminiscent of Mk 19’s, two more had twin six-barreled gatling cannons. A fifth had a long anti-material rifle. The sixth, quite bizarrely, had a five foot lance, the tip of which crackled with glowing purple energy. Probably magic.

The effect was intimidating to say the least. These were not ponies I wanted to piss off. I asked Ink Blot about them.

“Those are Steel Rangers!” He whispered urgently, “we have to hide.”

“They’re hostile?” I asked, crouching down and moving off the road, “What are they after?”

“Pre-war tech,” he explained, “if they see us they’ll shake us down to see if we have anything good… Oh fuck.”

“What?” I was confused, “I thought you didn’t know that word!”

“What, ‘fuck’?” I nodded, “I know fuck, I just don’t get how you are one.”

“...” I had no words. He shook his head dismissively.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said urgently, pointing at my wrist, “you have a Pipbuck! They’re going to kill us both and saw off your foreleg!”

We moved low, trying to keep out of sight, but there wasn’t much cover to rely on. We managed to find a depression in the ground. It wasn’t much, but if I lay flat I was just out of sight from the road.

I lay in the muddy ditch, feeling the steady trickle of icy water soaking into my clothes. The seconds ticked by slowly but I dared not move my arm to check how long it had been. Gradually I began to hear the hoofsteps of the approaching rangers, the clanking of heavy steel plates combined with a whirring that reminded me of hydraulics. As they got closer I noticed how heavy their hoofsteps were. The ground literally shook as they marched. Were they ponies or robots? Surely a pony would be rendered immobile under such weight.

Their hoofbeats got louder and closer until they suddenly stopped. I didn’t know exactly how far away they were, but they were close. Fuck. They must have seen something. Footprints? Fuck. I gripped my rifle tightly to my chest, my heart raced, my mouth tasted of salt. Would my rifle even be effective against their armor? My 40mm grenades might do something, but they were too close, I would be in the kill radius, not to mention it would take me a little too long to load between shots.

I touched my fingers to my chest pocket, feeling the hard plastic figurine. She’d brought me luck in the past. If ever there was a time for the charm to work, now would be it. Maybe they didn’t see me? No, they had to have seen me. It was too much of a coincidence for them to stop in this exact spot. I took a breath in, held it for a second, and released it slowly. My pulse was pounding in my ears. My body tensed like a spring, ready to burst forth from my hiding place and be torn to shreds in a blaze of glory, at the same time I felt just as ready to puke out my meager breakfast and die pointlessly in a pool of my own bodily fluids. Sadly, the feeling was familiar to me.

When the ranger spoke I almost didn’t hear him over the insistent pounding in my ears.

“I am Star Paladin Blueberry Waffles,” he spoke in a commanding tone, voice slightly distorted as if emanating from a speaker, “we know where you are, Alien. You will surrender or die. If you understand me, throw your weapons to my hooves and come out slowly.”

I looked to the colt who was hiding with me. He quivered with fear and shook his head at me, mouthing the word ‘no!’. I couldn’t see any alternative though. I was outnumbered and outclassed in weaponry. Normally I would rather die than be taken prisoner, but I couldn't imagine little ponies torturing eachother like the Taliban did. I had much yet to learn about the wasteland in that respect. I unclipped my rifle from its harness, my shoulder feeling disconcertingly light as the familiar weight was lifted for the first time in days. It felt so wrong to give up my rifle, I’d sooner surrender my clothes and walk the wastes naked.

I tossed the rifle out towards the voice, calling out my surrender. With the sudden movement I heard a minigun barrel spin up to speed, only to slow to a stop once again.

“Good.” The paladin sounded pleased with himself, “Now lie on your back, I want to see your hooves up in the air.”

I could have pointed out that I did not, in fact, have any hooves, but now didn’t seem to be the time to make such distinctions. I awkwardly lifted up my hands and feet into view. As I did, I saw one of the armored ponies come forward into my vision with a pair of shackles grasped in its mouth. The armor over the lower part of its face was retracted to allow it to hold the cuffs, revealing a bright yellow coat. I briefly considered stabbing it in the face. One stab under the chin, up through the soft palate into the brain.

I dismissed the notion as I remembered the firepower its friends could bring to bear. Instead I allowed myself to be shackled. Wrists and ankles were chained together in an ‘H’ pattern. On a quadrupedal animal they would have prevented the creature from moving at more than a shuffle. On a human, they prevented me from raising my hands above my waist, which was actually pretty effective. I tensed up my muscles as the cuffs were applied. My MOS had never rated SERE training, but I recalled a random fragment of a documentary on Houdini I had seen growing up. Wait… was that for ropes or handcuffs? Well, too late now.

One of the other ponies spotted Ink Blot crawling away. “Hey you!” said the Ranger, “Tribal, you know this alien? You’re coming with us.”

-x-

We trudged along the road, rangers’ armor clanking, my chains clinking and the colt trotting along in relative silence, glancing around as if trying to decide whether to make a break for it. I had spent the time taking note of things like where they had stored my gear and remembering landmarks we passed. You could never have too much information in a situation like this, and being restrained gave me little to do besides gathering intel. It had been a couple hours since we started moving and the rangers hadn’t said a word. I decided to try my luck.

“Where are you taking us?” I asked.

“Back to base.” I waited for a few seconds before it became clear that was all he was going to volunteer.

“How did you find me?”

“Pipbuck tag.” What a talkative fellow. Damn this Pipbuck. I couldn’t get it off my wrist, but maybe I could at least break it. I made a mental note to try that later. If my arm hadn’t been sawn off by then.

The colt trotted up next to me and looked up fearfully. I suppose he was more afraid of them than he was of me. Well, that was progress I guess.

“Uhm, I -” the rest of his sentence was lost as he descended into a mumble.

“What was that?” I asked, leaning down slightly.

“I-I have to -” He began even quieter, swallowing the end of the sentence as he looked at the ground.

“Huh?” I asked. Wait. Oh, right. Damn. I would have facepalmed if my wrists hadn’t been chained to my ankles. I realised what he was trying to tell me a moment too late however.

“I said I need to pee!” He exclaimed, a little too loudly. Wow, I didn’t think ponies with a black coat could blush.

One of the rangers snickered.

“You can go behind that building,” said Blueberry Waffles, “Icecream, Frosting, follow him, make sure he doesn’t run off.”

The colt hesitated, shuffling uncomfortably. For a moment I thought he was going to protest having to be escorted but after a moment’s indecision he proceeded without argument.

A couple minutes later he emerged from around the side of the building galloping for all he was worth and screaming at the top of his lungs. To my confusion he ran directly towards us.

Paladin Waffles stepped forward and flared his lance in a staggeringly unnecessary show of force. The colt slid to a halt in front of the glowing lance, trembling, pupils constricted to pinpricks.

“What do you think you’re doing?” yelled the Paladin, “Where is Knight -”

“Something got them,” the colt replied urgently, edging around the paladin and towards me, “it was… they came from the ground, it was so fast!”

“We’re not in hellhound territory…” muttered the knight with the anti-materiel rifle. What the fuck was a Hell Hound? Heh. Well, if they were killing rangers, oorah Devil Dogs I guess.

“You two,” ordered the paladin, motioning at the two with the gatling cannon and the anti-materiel rifle, “check it out, Cheesecake, you’re with me. Stay in radio contact.”

I had no love for the rangers, but I just couldn’t let that go without comment.

“You’re sending them into an ambush.” I said flatly. The paladin ignored me.

The colt was hiding behind my legs now. I leaned down towards him and whispered “Alright, this idiot paladin is going to get us all killed. When I say, get ready to run.” He nodded at me fearfully. I had seen where the ranger who cuffed me kept his keys. Hopefully I could snag them in the confusion, unlock my restraints, grab my gear, and get away without being killed. Fuck. Oh well, die trying I guess.

A grenade exploded behind the building, followed by the thunderous retort of a .50 caliber rifle. There was a second explosion and part of the building was blown away, followed by the sound of shrieking metal, then silence.

The Paladin stood frozen in what I assume was the shock of listening to the screams of his men as they were torn apart by whatever hid behind that building.

The ground in front of us began to bulge as if something were tunneling towards us. I couldn’t run with the chains on, so I crouched down to at least minimise the target I presented.

“Hellhounds! They’re in the ground -” he screamed, “fire, FIRE!”
The last knight spun up her Gatling guns and and unleashed twin torrents of lead into the ground around us. The guns’ created an impenetrable sheet of noise for those of us without the benefit of sealed helmets. The one time I actually need earplugs, I dropped them back in Afghanistan, fan-fucking-tastic. Then there were two bulges, then three, then five.

The knight tried in vain to keep them back, turning in place. How long had she been firing for? A minute? Two? How much ammo could she possibly have in that armor? The barrels were starting to glow red, clearly they weren’t designed with this level of continuous fire in mind. *cli-cli-clic-clic* the left gun ran dry, slowing to a stop, smoking. The right followed soon after. Spent brass was piled ankle deep around the mare for several feet in every direction. Where the fuck did that much brass come from? It seemed to defy physics.

“Die you sons of bitches!” she yelled in rage, her amplified voice somehow piercing the deafening ringing in my ears. The flanks of her armor popped open to reveal four rockets. Just as one of the creatures burst from the ground it caught a rocket to the chest and exploded into meaty chunks. I felt the shockwave from the explosion thump into my chest, knocking the breath out of me.

“DANGER CLOSE YOU FUCKWIT!” I yelled at the top of my lungs… I couldn’t hear myself. Oh god, my ears were so fucked. Ink Blot had curled up next to me, forehooves over his ears, trying desperately to block out the sound as chunks of flaming hellhound rained down all around us. The smell of burnt fur was nauseating.

“RUN KID!” the colt didn’t respond, remaining in his fetal position. I kicked him, “GET UP! MOVE!”

The colt got to his hooves and broke into a shambling run. The blast wave must have really rung his bell. The knight readied another rocket but it went wild when a clawed paw grabbed her rear left hoof. The knight screamed in frustration, attempting to stomp the paw with her metal clad hooves. I watched on in shock as the claw cut right through her armor, taking the hoof with it. She stood defiant on three hooves as what I assume was a hellhound emerged behind her, grabbed her armor encased tail and attempted to pull her into a deadly embrace. The hellhound stood eight feet tall with the build of a canine terminator, the claws of Wolverine extending each finger, and the face of a Diamond Dog that lived too close to Chernobyl.

“EAT SHIT AND DIE MOTHERFU-” the two of them were consumed in an explosion as she detonated her remaining rockets in their tubes.

I was knocked face down to the ground as something slammed into my chest. The world spun sickeningly as I struggled not to fall off the face of the planet. Warm fluid leaked from my ears, my vision swam and my forehead felt like it was going to implode into my skull at any moment. There was dirt in my mouth and I struggled to breathe. When I managed to turn my head sideways it felt like a major achievement. I hacked and coughed soundlessly, sucking air as hard and fast as I could but I just couldn’t get enough.

I could see the paladin backing away from a number of hellhounds, his lance sliced into neat cylindrical pieces. He held up his hooves in surrender before his head was separated from his body.

I hadn’t realised that I closed my eyes, but when I reopened them the dogs were closer, surrounding me. I tried to get to my hands and knees, but with my wrists chained, I couldn’t get my hands to shoulder height. Instead I rolled on my side and tried to get to my knees. The effort nearly caused me to black out; I just couldn’t get enough air. I was coughing up mucus-filled blood but I couldn’t wipe it from my face. The lack of balance was debilitating, I struggled to remain upright and felt like I was going to puke, but if I did that I was surely going to choke on it. I just couldn’t stop gasping. One of the dogs jammed a bottle in my mouth, pouring something into it. I struggled like a drowning man, thrashing with new-found strength. The cuffs tore the skin on my wrists as I pulled with all my adrenaline fueled might.

With a sickening pop my left hand came free and I tried to knock the bottle away. At the same time blackness ate at my vision. My blows became weaker and weaker, until suddenly I gasped, inhaling the fluid and passing into unconsciousness.

-x-

I lay on my bunk, trying to take a nap. Sleeping was easily the third best way to alleviate boredom, right after blowing shit up and jacking it. I swear to fucking Christ, if I had to listen to Jackson’s much-improved story about how he and a friend got drunk and accidentally robbed a 7-11 with his dog Pongo again, I was going to apply for a section eight for mental anguish. If anyone pointed out plot holes he just laughed and came up with an even more embellished version next time. It was sweltering hot inside the tent and sweat beaded my arms, but outside in the sunlight the heat would be far worse.

I heard a gunshot outside, an M16. Another couple shots followed. I grabbed my rifle from its position next to my bunk and threw my vest over my head, moving to the door. I was still in my underwear, but it’s not like anyone gave a fuck about modesty on a FOB. As I emerged into the bright sunlight I was hit by a wave of heat. I looked up to our watch tower. The Marine on duty didn’t have his rifle raised, seemingly standing idle with his back to me.

“Hey Smith,” I yelled up to him, “The fuck’s going on out there.”

The Marine looked over his shoulder at me, a shit eating grin on his face.

“Oh, hey Horsefucker,” he called back. He gave it no more emphasis than if it were my real name, which for most intents and purposes it was. “Animal Control; you’ll never believe this shit, some doped up Hajis dyed this pony’s hair blue! Maybe it’s one of your friends!”

I rolled my eyes and turned towards the gate. The Marine snickered as I walked off, and I smiled at the obvious attempt to get under my skin. I didn’t like Animal Control and I wasn’t the only one. ‘Animal Control’ was code for ‘shooting stray animals that wandered within range of the FOB’. They had to make sure it was actually stray of course; shooting farm animals would have the brass come down on you like a Hellfire on a Pakistani wedding.

A particular group of Marines had made a sport out of it. It was an open secret that Cpl. O'Malley took bets on what type of animal it would be (Dog had 5:1 odds, Donkey 1:2, cat 2:1, ect.), where it would be hit and how many shots it would take. Animal Control wasn’t exactly in line with regs, but the Captain didn’t seem to care, and this far out he was the highest authority on base. Rumor was he had fifty dollars on cat.

I didn’t participate in Animal Control, but I still watched it. It was something to break up the monotony, even if it was a pointless and cruel way to end an animal’s life. As I stepped out of the gates, I saw…

Ink Blot. With a bullet hole in his neck. Confusion staggered me sideways as the world shifted and I choked on the breath I was taking – warm, salty blood flew in globules from my mouth as my body tried violently to expel the fluid from my lungs and throat. My nose was clogged with dried blood. My rifle came up, even as I fell to a knee. My vision blurred, my ears pounded, but I could just barely make out Marines running towards me, yelling. I blacked out for a second, and I was crawling. I had to get to – someone was bleeding out and – a horrific crackling assaulted my ears, they itched on the inside, my fingers dug into the sand – I could see the young Marine’s face contort in agony, I just had to – a child lay with his back to a wall, screaming, grasping at where his hand used to be. I tried to yell for a medic, but I couldn’t draw a breath. The child’s gaze snapped to me, a gun levitated in a blue aura, those eyes were too large, inhuman. There was a meaty thump –

-x-

My back arched in discomfort at landing on the hard surface, and I gasped desperately for a breath that just would not come. There was a tremendous weight on my chest, I couldn’t get more than a shallow gasp in before it was crushed out of me. The itching in my ears stopped abruptly as a high pitched whine popped into existence and began fading.

“He is not dog,” said a gruff voice, “why do we help not-dog? How we know he not pony lover?”

A yelp accompanied the sound of someone being clipped round the ears.

“He no like ponies,” said a second voice, “not-dog pony prisoner. He help us kill pony, avenge packmates! You see.”

I couldn’t respond, I could do nothing but take fast, shallow breaths, the crushing pain seeming to grow with each inhalation. I could see nothing in the dim light. A furry ear was placed on my chest. I was too weak to even raise my arms. A clawed paw felt its way down my chest, tapping ribs. I couldn’t even hiss in pain. I clenched my eyes shut in agony. I was completely unprepared when an unimaginably sharp claw sliced through my chest.

A gust of air spewed forth from the hole in my side, the crushing pressure released and I took the largest breath I’d ever taken in my life. My lungs finally inflating to their full capacity, I continued gasping air for a couple minutes until my breathing began to slow back to a normal rate. Liquid was poured over the wound and I actually felt the flesh knitting back together.

I sat up on the edge of the stone slab I’d been laid on, and my head swam dangerously for a second before I got my balance back. In the dimness I could make out the shapes of what I assumed were hellhounds. In front of them was a colt with all four legs tied together, almost invisible as his black coat blended into the darkness. I didn’t know what to think, on the one hand it was better than I had expected from an obviously predatory species, but to see him tied up like that raised feelings of anger in the back of my mind. A hellhound spoke.

“This one says you kill many pony,” the dog growled, “says you kill whole family, but we not trust pony. You kill pony now, prove you are not pony spy.”

Fuck.

Author's Note

Thanks to my editor Tebee, my technical advisor ZombieMedic7 and my beta reader Primepersephony for putting up with all of my crap and helping me turn this long-awaited chapter into something somewhat presentable. Thanks to my readers over at spacebattles forums for their random snipits of advice. Thanks to all my readers for continuing to take an interest in this story despite my nine month hiatus. I'll try and get the next chapter out within two weeks.

Some of you may be wondering what the hell was wrong with the protagonist in the preceding scenes here is a brief description I sent to my editors at 3 in the morning so forgive any typos. Disclaimer: I am not a doctor, but I do work in a hospital

The protagonist has something called 'blast lung' (an injury typical of people who find themselves too close to high explosive detonations), which, along with bruising the inside of his lung, combine with a secondary impact it has displaced his existing rib fractures, causing a tension pneumothorax (punctured lung with a valve like flap of pulmonary tissue trapping air in the chest cavity), because of this, when he was breathing, air was escaping his lung and instead filing his chest cavity, where it was trapped, crushing the outside of his lungs and collapsing the punctured one, making it more difficult to breathe with every breath.

He also has barotrauma injuries to his eyes (resulting in blurred vision, pain), ears (ruptured eardrums, resulting in severe disorientation (loss of balance), nausea, and hearing loss), and sinuses (resulting in a massive headache).

When he is given healing potions, most of the damage is repaired, including his punctured lung, but the air in the chest cavity has nowhere to go (it would take days for that much air to be absorbed out naturally), so the dog listens to his chest, hears no breath sounds and relieves the pressure, by cutting into his chest cavity and healing the incision he just made with a healing potion, (a crude alternative to a needle aspiration).

Chapter 5: And The Horse You Rode In On

Author's Note

I was writing this eighteen months ago when I came down with a crippling case of procrastination and writer's block. Enjoy.

Chapter 5: And The Horse You Rode In On

“This one says you kill many pony,” the dog growled, “says you kill whole family, but we not trust pony. You kill pony now, prove you are not pony spy.”

Fuck.

My eyes struggled to adapt to the darkness, clearly the hellhounds had excellent night vision if they lived in such a space. The small amount of light in the… cave I guessed, came from luminous algae growing on rough hewn ledges of rock around the outside of the room.

What the fuck was I going to do? I looked at the colt who was, once again, staring at me in abject terror. It was only my years of experience that prevented me from mirroring his expression. I looked at him with hard eyes. Internally I felt sick. I had no weapons. What did they expect me to do? Choke him to death? I could remember with sickening detail my hand around his furry throat, I could imagine squeezing, crushing his windpipe, his legs flailing uselessly as his eyes bulged, pupils moving rapidly, searching for help that would never come, wheezing and spluttering until he finally went limp. I tasted bile in the back of my mouth.

You’re going to die, John. You’re going to die because you can’t bring yourself to kill just one more person. I was afraid and in pain, but that all seemed far away, like I was outside my body. More than anything I just felt fatigued, the adrenaline that had kept me on edge for the last four days was just… gone. For the first time in a long time I felt truly helpless, and not only helpless, but accepting. As much as a part of me raged against ever giving up, ever surrendering, I just felt like I wanted to lay down and sleep, accept whatever the consequences were, let someone else make the decision for me.

It’s not like refusing to kill Ink Blot was going to save his life anyway. It wasn’t about weighing the value of his life against mine. The decision was closer to ‘him or both of us’, the logical decision was clear, if monsterous. He was almost surely going to be killed and eaten regardless of whether I was the one to deliver the killing blow. He tried to kill me once. He thought me a monster, he was certainly expecting me to act like one. I’d told him as much, I had said I’d ‘always pick me’, and yet… this was different.

This wasn’t a battle I could face head on. I was unarmed, injured, fatigued, and there were a dozen dogs that I’d seen take multiple minigun rounds to the chest, only to keep fighting, wielding claws I’d seen cut through steel like it was cardboard.

I couldn’t kill him, I couldn’t fight the dogs, I probably couldn’t reason with them, and I couldn’t escape the tunnels. I’d been dealt a shitty hand, but I couldn’t afford to lose. I couldn’t fold and I couldn’t win, so that really only left one option.

“I don’t kill my slaves.” I growled, keeping my voice hard, eyes straight, “And I sure as hell don’t need to kill a pup to prove myself to the likes of you.”

“No!” said one of the dogs, “You must kill pony. Prove you-”

“Do I look like a pretty pony princess to you?” I pressed my fingers together into a knife hand, raising them to shoulder height, “Do I clippity clop around on little hooves all prissy like, picking flowers and singing songs about fucking friendship?”

The dog seemed taken aback, looking at his fellows for support, receiving only confused expressions in return.

“I am a Marine, a Devil Dog, and we’re the toughest... pack in history. We have two hundred thousand warriors ready to fight anywhere on the planet.”

“Bullshit.”

“Who said that?” I yelled, putting some Crazy Drill Sergeant into my eyes. “Who the fuck said that?”

A dog raised a claw.

“Motherfucker, you better take that back. I will tear off your head and shit down your neck!” I screamed in his face, “I will gouge out your eyes, and skull fuck your dismembered head before I beat you to death with your own skull!”

“That’s impossible.”

“That’s just what the last guy kept screaming.”

“Enough, Devil Dog.” The dog who I assume was the leader spoke up. “You have said your piece.”

This hellhound sounded… different from his fellows. His voice was still rough and deep, but his ‘English’ wasn’t broken. As for what he said? Well, he wasn’t ordering my execution, yet, so I decided to press my advantage.

“Thanks for patching me up, I owe you one,” I tried to fake a tone of easy camaraderie, “now I just need some supplies, and my gear back, and we’ll be on our way. If you dogs ever find yourselves in Kandahar, drinks are on me.”

I shot them the sincerest grin I could manage. The grin became more forced as the long seconds ticked by. It wasn’t easy to interpret emotion on the dog’s furry face, but the prolonged eye contact was unnerving. The other dogs were all watching the pack leader as I held his gaze using my Lance Corporal skills, developed through years of reporting to 1st Sergeants that my Libo buddy couldn’t possibly have drunkenly crashed a tactically acquired speed boat full of local prostitutes, since he was with me the entire time.

The pack leader bared his teeth and exhaled a short puff of air. My mind shot into overdrive trying to find a way to fight myself out of this mess, but every scenario I considered ended very quickly with my death at the claws of the hellhounds. The only possible weapon I had was my pipbuck, used as a bludgeon. Depending on how fast the dogs were, I might have been able to get one shot in before I was cut to pieces, which really wasn’t very helpful.

He exhaled again, and I realised he was laughing. The rest of the pack saw this and joined in. I didn’t have to fake the cheek splitting grin that appeared on my face. Relief flowed through every part of my body like I had never experienced before in my life. The tension in my muscles turned into a shaking fit as I laughed uncontrollably, struggling to remain upright. I still didn’t know whether or not I was going to die, but the ridiculousness of the situation, combined with my fear, just seemed to short-circuit my brain. A glance at the colt, tied up on the floor, his pinprick pupils still darting around in terror as he nervously tried to join in with the laughter brought me back to reality somewhat.

Finally, the pack leader spoke: “You amuse me, Devil Dog. You are weak like a pup, yet you speak to me as an equal… perhaps I have a use for you after all.”

“You’re one ugly son of a bitch, but you speak my language and I do owe you for dealing with those tin plate motherfuckers,” I shot back, might as well play the part I was given, fear of death be damned, “I suppose I could help you out.”

“Ahh yes, some of my brethren may lack a certain eloquence, my bloodline has been somewhat gifted in that regard,” the leader continued, gesturing to a line of white fur across his throat, “I am King Fido, ruler over all Hellhounds; but sadly, I am a king in exile. The other packs do not recognise my rule, nor appreciate my obviously superior intellect.”

“Alright then, where do I come in?”

“I think we’ve talked enough, I will need time to modify my plans,” said Fido, “you may keep your life, for now.”

“And my slave?” I asked, “He is my property, I should decide whether he lives or dies.”

“A distasteful thing, slavery, more honourable to grant them a quick death, but if such is your custom, you may keep him, perhaps the unicorn can find us some gems for our energy weapons.”

“Great,” I replied, “you and me, Fido, we’re going to be good friends.”

“You and I.” Fido corrected.

“Glad you feel the same way.”

Fido turned to leave. “Oh, there’s just one more thing,” he turned back to face me, “show me your pipbuck.”

His tone of voice left no confusion about the consequences of not doing so. Reluctantly I held out my left arm. His surprisingly dexterous fingers navigated through the menus at a pace I couldn’t follow, clearly he was familiar with such devices. His wolfish smile turned into a scowl as he reached a certain page.

“You are broadcasting our location, ‘ambassador’,” he growled, “and to think you almost had my trust.”

His grip tightened on my arm. It was like being grabbed by a gorilla, I could do nothing but yell in pain as he extended one claw and placed it against my forearm just above the pipbuck.

“No, wait -” I screamed. The unimaginably sharp claw sliced through muscle and bone like they weren’t even there, too quick for me to even register any pain before I saw the stump of my arm. I fell to the floor in utter disbelief as to what had just happened. My brain was unable to process the idea that my hand was no longer attached to my body. Automatically my right hand went for my tourniquet, applying it just below the biceps.

“Patch him up and take him to the dungeon,” Fido ordered, as he left the room carrying my severed arm, “I’ll decide what to do with him later.”

Two dogs jumped forward to hold me down in case I struggled, but honestly I was too shocked, too faint from bloodloss to fight back anyway. A third dog, who I now recognised by her white markings as a descendant of the royal bloodline, held a bottle of purple liquid to my mouth as the other dogs forced me into a sitting position.

“Drink.” she ordered, and I complied. Skin grew over the stump of my left arm within seconds. Magic, it had to be.

I felt a bit less faint, but I still lacked energy to fight as the dogs walked me to a cell and threw me inside. Ink Blot was thrown in after me, still bound and gagged. The royal bitch handed me a plate of some kind of meat, and a knife along with a cup of water. I was surprised that they gave me a weapon, but I guess when you have claws that cut through steel, a steak knife isn’t considered a weapon.

“Eat.” the dog commanded as she closed and locked the door “You have lost a lot of blood.”

As soon as the door was closed I crawled over to Ink. I almost fell on my face as I tried to put weight on my non-existent hand. I retched and threw up a small amount of purple fluid... and realised that I couldn’t use my left arm to wipe my mouth. I made it over to him while he tried to shrink away in fear. I sighed. I was just too tired for this shit. Grasping the knife, I used it to cut his bonds, then put down the knife to properly untangle his legs. I removed the gag; and he bit me! He let go as I wrenched my hand away, yelling in shock. Partly out of reflex and partly in anger I backhanded him across the face, knocking him to the ground. Putting my right forearm across his neck, I used my bodyweight to pin him to the floor. His tiny hooves kicked out at me helplessly, and as I looked into his eyes I saw fear and confusion.

I sighed and tried to put my left hand to my face in shame. What the fuck was I doing? What had I become? I rolled off him and lay on my back, my right hand clutching the aching stump of my left arm. Released from my hold, Ink Blot immediately picked up the discarded knife. I saw him do it, but I didn’t move to stop him, I just shut my eyes, hearing small hoofsteps coming towards me.

“If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with.” I said, resigned, “I don’t know what those dogs have planned for us, but if I were you… I’d do myself next.”

The hoofsteps stopped, and I waited; but the pain didn’t come.

“Tell me something.” I asked, “Why did you stay? You could have run. When you woke up, and I was still asleep, you could have just left, and I wouldn’t have been able to stop you.”

He stayed silent.

“I have so many regrets.” I talked to fill the silence, to say the things I’d never had the chance to tell anyone. “I’ve killed people, Ink Blot. Some who deserved it, and some who didn’t; I’ve killed to protect others, I’ve killed to survive, and I’ve killed because I was ordered to. In the end what’s the difference? They’re still dead. Their wives mourn and their sons vow revenge.”

There was so much more I needed to say before I died.

“I wanted that.” I continued, “A family, I mean. Someone to love and to hold, a son to raise together, so I could teach him right from wrong, help him become the best he could be…”

I was practically babbling, just saying everything that came to mind.

“Why did this have to happen?” There were tears in my eyes. “I just wanted to protect people. That’s all I ever wanted. I’m so sorry Ink Blot, you didn’t deserve this. You’re a good little pony, and brave, so brave. You shouldn’t have to deal with this wasteland, with me. You should be in school, worrying about homework and who to invite to your birthday party… Life isn’t fair. Bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad ones. I- I just… why?”

I heard a sob, and I tensed involuntarily as I was embraced by furry legs. I reflexively wrapped my arm around him, feeling his tiny body wracked with sobs. In my mind he was somewhere between a small child and a puppy, and I couldn’t really be mad at either.

“I’m so s-scared,” he cried, “I don’t want t-o be a slave.”

“Shh, it’s okay,” I tried to calm him down, “you’re not a slave.”

“But you said-” he began.

“They were going to kill us,” I explained, “I had to make something up. I could never kill a child.”

He lay there for a minute, chest rising and falling, then his demeanor changed, suddenly going tense and pushing himself away from me.

“Why are you being nice to me?” Ink Blot demanded, “I hate you! You killed my parents! I tried to kill you! You should hate me, you’re evil!”

I exhaled, and chuckled darkly. He was brave, but still very naive for a child brought up in the wasteland. Ink Blot kicked me in my recently healed ribs and I winced in pain.

“It’s not funny!” He screamed, “You always laugh at me! Is my life a joke to you? If you want to die, fine, but I don’t! I’m scared, and I don’t want to die, and you’re just laying there all sad and telling me to kill you and-”

“In-” I tried to interrupt his tirade.

“NO!” He shouted me down, “You told me you would always pick you, you killed my parents so you could live and now-

“I wa-” I started.

“Why couldn’t you lay down and die then?” He accused, tears streaming down his face once more, “Why c-c…”

I felt disgusted with myself. Had I really given up this easily? Asked a child to kill me? My arm ached and I looked down to a hand that was no longer present. If I ever managed to get back I’d be discharged as medically unfit, just another veteran waiting in line at the VA. What was the point if that’s all I had to look forward to. That was assuming of course that the dogs didn’t torture me to death, and I somehow managed to escape, and to travel to a place on a map I no longer had, across a wasteland teeming with murderous ponies, to find an experimental magical machine that hadn’t been maintained in two hundred years, located somewhere in a small city, without even knowing what it looked like and operate it without any understanding of how it worked… Yeah.

My body shook, and I didn’t know why. Fear? Relief? Cold? Shock? I took a slow deep breath, held it for a second, and blew it out through pursed lips, the tremor abating. I had nothing left to lose. I was going get Ink Blot out of here or die trying.

I observed our surroundings again. The room was a cube with six sides of solid rock, and one door constructed of steel bars. The interior held two benches hewn from the same rock as the walls. Illumination came from the same glowing moss that I’d seen in the infirmary and was just barely bright enough to see by. Ink Blot’s pupils had expanded to fill almost the entirety of his enormous eyes making him look even more adorable, if that were possible. My quick survey of the cell had only renewed my sense of hopelessness.

Grabbing the cup and plate I pushed myself up into a sitting position, leaning against the wall. I felt exhausted and every part of my body ached. Even the small effort of sitting up left me sweating and short of breath. I brought the metal cup up to my mouth and sipped some water. It was warm and tasted faintly of copper, but it was immensely satisfying. I tried to bring my left hand up to massage my temples. The stump twitched, and in frustration I threw my head back, contacting the wall with a ‘thwak’.

Ink Blot had moved to lay next to me his head resting on his forehooves, at the sound he perked his ears up, before looking up at me, ears splayed back in concern.

“I don’t know what to do.” I admitted, my head resting in my one remaining hand. I exhaled deeply, only to be thrown into a coughing fit. My lungs burned and my chest muscles ached.

When the spasms abated, my lungs were empty and I sucked in air, trying to breathe slowly and avoid another fit. When I recovered I continued.

“There’s no way out,” I spoke more softly, “walls are solid, door is steel bars anchored into rock, hinges are protected.”

“There’s no way I can overpower a hell hound, not without the element of surprise and overwhelming firepower,” I continued in a rasp, “I’d have a better chance wrestling a gorilla… with one hand.”

The words slipped from my mouth as I was forced to acknowledge my severed limb once again. My eyes unfocused as I looked down at my knees in defeat. I was broken. Useless.

“You said you were a Devil Dog,” Ink Blot didn’t move his head to look at me, “were you lying about that too?”

I had to control myself to avoid letting out another sigh. My lungs still burned from the last coughing fit.

“No, that part was true,” I replied, “it-”

“-Then you can dig us out of here!” He interrupted.

“No”

“Your paw…” he said, “but you still have one left, maybe you can-”

I cracked a smile at the absurdity of the situation.

“I’m not a hell hound,” I explained, “I’m a human. We were never Diamond dogs, and as far as I know I’m the only human who’s ever been to Equestria. Devil Dog is an unofficial title given to the warriors of my branch of the military.”

“There are more of you though?” He asked hopefully, “They’ll realise you’re missing and-”

“I don’t even understand the magic that brought me here,” I looked up at the rock ceiling, “I doubt they even think I’m still alive.”

There wasn’t much left to say, tomorrow we would meet our fate, and there was nothing I could do to control it. Sleep eventually claimed us both.

State of the Fanfic

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

Chapter ??: Omake

Author's note: Well, seeing as it's no longer April Fools where I am, this chapter is being converted into an Omake (bonus content). Chapter 4 is not written yet because I only posted chapter 3 about 20 hours ago. That is all.

Chapter ??: Omake

"Step 1: Call the Marines." US Army Survival Manual, Page 1

Hey...

Yeah?

Have you ever wondered why we're here?

No.

Bull. Fucking. Shit.

Fine. Yes. I mean, are we all really just here on some ridiculous mission creep on the manhunt for UBL, or is there really a plan?

What? … I meant why are we here on this FOB.

Oh...

Where did all that stuff about UBL come from?

Uh...

You want to talk about it?

...Nope

Anyway, we’re on a grid square that has no tactical importance whatsoever. The only reason those insurgents are camped out in those caves over there is so that they can attack our FOB’s supply route, and the only reason we have a base here is to try and stop them.

Yeah. That’s because we’re fighting each other.

No no no. You’re not getting it. What I’m saying is, if we pulled out today, there would be no reason to have a supply route anymore, and the insurgents would gain total control of a useless fucking grid square. Woop de fucking do.

Annnnd that’s why you’re still a Lance.

Go fuck yourself.

The fuck you just say?

Go fuck yourself... *sigh* Corporal.

That’s better.

Author's Note

Just in case I was too subtle, this was April Fools chapter. Now it's just a non-cannon bonus scene. The story will continue as if this chapter had never happened. Happy April Fools my faithful readers :P