Xenophobia

Chapter 16

A voice, soft and lilting, invaded the void.

“Jay-Jay?”

“Yeah?”

“What did Sister Mara mean… about the ‘restructuring’ thing? That it would involve the ‘entirety of the institution’?”

Jer lay back, head punching a small divot in the dune below him. He looked up at the night sky—the twinkling blanket never ceased to amaze him—and scratched his chin in thought.

“S’a Company thing: harmless. We’ll need to give them names, serial numbers… that sorta thing. I wouldn’t worry about it.” He felt a warm weight against his chest and allowed his eyes—and chin—to shift downward for a moment. A face-full of curly locks quickly prompted him to return his gaze to the stars above.

The feminine voice piped up once more: “And those men with guns?”

“Guards for the scientists,” Jer concluded, tracing a particularly enticing curve of celestial lights with his slate eyes. “Probably has to do with the annual core sampling at the mines in New Kilkenny.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t have them last year.” The weight on Jer’s chest shifted, and he was suddenly staring into a pair of deep, brown eyes. She was frowning. Jer hated that: she shouldn’t do that.

“There also wasn’t a union forming a year ago.” The relaxing orphan settled his arm across his companion’s lower back—a warm saddle between two peaks. He had been cold before, the desert sand serving as a sink for all of his body heat, but now…

Well, now the temperature was much more pleasant.

“But—”

“But nothing, Dulce,” he gently warned, rubbing the girl’s back with tender care and giving her a meaningful look. “I want you to stay away from the west-side meetinghouse from now on.” The girl’s frown deepened, and Jer pressed onward. “It’s dangerous to be near them, honey, especially with those Company men here. Promise me you’ll stay away.”

Dulce snuggled closer, burying her head in Jer’s shoulder and squeezing his sides with her thin, yet powerful, arms. She stayed like that for what felt like hours before speaking, voice hitching, breathless and weak.

“I… I promise…”

And the warmth Gerald felt soaking into his chest became something unbelievably terrifying and wrong; a moment of clarity flashing inward and outward as could only happen in a dream…

Blood in the sand.

Gerald screamed.

Lovely pain, dripping sweat, and crackling messages greeted the human’s awakening. The room spun an empty white, and Jer flailed wildly for a moment in the apparent void, quickly finding balance on his uncomfortable hospital bed—his because he commandeered it, bolting the door with a plastic zip-tie from the jeep nearly half-an-hour ago.

“Corporal, come in. Jer? Pick up, damn it.”

The voice bubbled and reverberated, both inside his skull and from the small, off-white countertop to his left. Shaking his head, the human slid, burnt and tattered dress pants sucking wetly upon the synthetic hospital sheets, and grasped the receiver from the jeep radio—pried out under orders from Raymond and set next to Jer’s bed.

He winced as his burnt fingers clutched at rounded plastic, searching for the correct button. Jer felt murky and dull, perhaps a side effect from the unicorn restorative he’d forced himself to drink: a glowing, bluish concoction that he had been assured was very safe. Finally, his thumb brushed his objective, and he keyed his most intelligent response:

“Yeh?”

Two signals flared with static for a moment before he heard the voice again—Raymond, definitely—the deep, vocal broodings of an angry god.

“The Moon secure?”

Gerald twitched, glancing past the radio to the room’s second bed, a grey bundle of tarp lying—nearly—still upon its rumpled sheets. “No problems on my end.”

“Our Benefactor wants proof.”

Didn’t believe them, did she? Well…

Jer forced himself to his feet, clenching his jaw at the sharp pain he felt in his leg, and limped the short distance between the two deathbeds. Stretching the receiver cord mercilessly, he fumbled at the loosely wrapped tarp with his free hand. Soon the grey material was torn away, revealing wispy, writhing stars and the deep, blue void of space. The human froze, momentarily entranced.

The stars… familiar…

He reached forward, fingertips plunging into the ethereal mirror, skimming icy bodies he knew well: Eridanus, Syla, LV – 8, LV – 390, Sol… The weight in—on—Jer’s chest was palpable, and he could feel maroon warmth oozing across his hideously itchy skin.

A chill crept along his arm across his shoulders to the back of Gerald’s neck, and he felt tired again. He nearly fell back into sleep’s cruel, horror-filled embrace when the radio crackled:

“Corporal?”

Gerald jerked awake and slowly withdrew his hand from the void. He frowned at the undulating mirror before him and followed it downward to a creature of midnight blue: the other ruler of the Equestrian Diarchy… the one his companion managed to brain with his rifle.

Her eyes were open, glazed and dead looking. The soft rustle of feathers against plastic told a different story, however, and Jer grunted quietly to himself. Nearly four doses of pinched horse tranquilizer and magic annuls was doing its job. Good.

“Give me a moment.”

Now the real challenge was how to get the doped alicorn to make some kind of recognizable noise… but not a scream. There were too many screams.

Jer peeled back the rest of the tarp, uncovering the rest of the Princess’s matted, blue fur and ruffled feathers. He couldn’t help but notice how her body curved in a rather appealing manner, and shuddered. He felt the familiar, shifting space that composed the small ruler’s mane regard him coldly, as if it could read his thoughts. Fighting a sudden, violent chill, Jer clenched his jaw and poked her in the flank: hard.

The effect was almost immediate:

“Stalwart! Put that away… thou art ‘on duty’.”

Corporal Hanes allowed himself a small smirk, absentmindedly wiping the blood-that-was-and-wasn’t from his chest. As he walked around the room he kept at it, trying to clean nothing.

The dirtiest nothing there ever was.

He kept at it even as his former commanding officer acknowledged his actions; as the sun began its late descent in the distance; as the knocking on the door began and the screams whined ever on.

Perhaps all one really wanted in life was to be clean.

Perhaps.

The table was sturdy—unmarked aside from decorative-looking bolts at the corners—and practically glowed in its impeccably polished condition. Mahogany, maybe: a dark wood of some sort that Raymond couldn’t really care less about. An expensive piece of furniture made for Company screws and their hobnobbing, sycophantic advisors.

Or, better yet, royalty…

“Alive and unharmed, you see. From here this should be quite simple.”

“… Indeed…”

She sat across from him: resplendent and white and unreadable; a shrewd politician, full of wisdom borne of immense age… if the things Ray had heard were true. Apparently, Chrysalis had also been an immortal. The human’s eyes flickered to the open door, and the aisle that stretched beyond. A dark stain stood out against the rumpled, red rug.

A guard had taken the body a while ago.

No matter.

Raymond leaned back on the plush chair—not a cushion, thank God—he had been provided, and the heavy metal and carbon fiber of his rifle settled on the pristine table, bore pointed in Celestia’s general direction. They were in the jurors’ recessionary chamber—alone.

“You have a small bug problem,” Ray began, choosing to repeat himself.

“Yes.” The alicorn was curt, glaring at him as if she could topple the entire solar system on his head. But she couldn’t, and, glancing at her blackened horn, the exterminator knew it. His right hand—the one not preoccupied with his weapon—tickled at the black, plastic body of the COM link he had clipped to the collar of the nice jacket Rarity made him. Fine mare, that Rarity: sad that her work had become so… tarnished. Celestia eyed the path of his fingers, the barely concealed anger that burnt in her eyes quickly becoming a look of calculated wariness.

“Our contract—the current one, signed under duress you remember—specified exactly what my associate and I were to do over the last two days: protect your country’s bastardized bio-weapon from a ‘mischievous chaos god’.” Ray looked around the room, making a small show of it, and shrugged. “Did you see one? I sure as fuck didn’t.” He stood up and leaned over the table, sliding the barrel of his gun closer to the seated ruler. “What I saw was an invasion: a disgusting, revolting, and entirely PREVENTABLE infestation of bugs that my associate nearly died trying to repel; that one of our pony acquaintances gave his life to push from your shit-heap of a city.

“Now”—Schaffer caressed the radio at his chest lovingly—“I am a generally quiet, agreeable man, and I of all people know that the unexpected often circumvents all plans and predictions.” His eyes narrowed. “But you chose to make this personal.”

“What I did was entirely necessary,” the Princess cut in, eyes flashing dangerously once more. “If you came willingly, Discord—”

“Honestly, I don’t give a fuck what your reasoning is,” Ray cut in, slamming a fist on the table. “You took my home from me—from my friend—and nearly killed us with your love-struck Captain’s plan.” He settled back into his seat, sinking wearily in the fine padding. “We just want to be left alone, and for the people—no, the ponies—who helped us to live in peace when we finally get the fuck off your damned planet.” He looked at her: “You make it personal, and we do the same.”

“So you want the suits.”

“Yes,” Raymond sighed, rubbing his forehead as he watched the motionless monarch.

“And in exchange, Princess Luna will go free and you will continue to keep the Elements safe until you leave our world?”

“In a sense,” the human coughed. “We want to do our job, and without the proper equipment—”

“It is difficult to commit genocide?” Celestia finished, eyes hard: glaring.

“Insecticide,” Raymond snorted, a tentative grin playing at the edge of his lips. “S’different.” He shifted his rifle, tracing the curvature of the alicorn’s almost swan-like neck. “One last favor to keep those who so graciously welcomed us safe”—he glanced to the open door, catching the eye of an eavesdropping, pink shape—“as safe as can be under your ‘watchful’ eye, at least.”

“I cannot allow you to expunge an entire race of beings from existence,” the Princess countered, matronly voice rising in the stagnant room. “You will not leave the country, let alone our planet, if you intend to commit such an act.”

Raymond sighed once more, growing tired. “Cadance, your elder defends the creatures that destroyed your city, killed your ponies, and practically wed your husband.” A small yelp emanated from behind the door, and, slowly, a pinkish form sidled into the open. “Does that seem wise to you?”

She entered the room, and Raymond heard his benefactor gasp. The bruises, cuts, and sunken eyes would fade in time, but for now, the fabled Crystal Princess truly looked like the victim of a brutal kidnapping.

Celestia was seeing her for the first time since the human had ‘cut’ her down from her cocoon.

“Under the circumstances,” Cadance shakily whispered, eyes sharp and awake and unfailingly blue, “I do not.”

Scootaloo knocked.

It wasn’t hard: a simple lift of the hoof and forward jerk, connecting with the plywood and plastic door in a rather satisfying way. The sound was the same, echoing over and over, over and over.

Scootaloo had been knocking for half an hour.

It wasn’t hard, but she couldn’t see in the window because she was too small and it was covered. The door was closed—locked tight from the inside—and ponies were watching her hesitantly from behind. She knew some of them. She didn’t care.

“Scoots? Scoots, the door isn’t going to open.”

“It will.”

“Scoots…”

Scootaloo knocked, and it wasn’t hard. It wasn’t hard because her hoof had gone numb, and the sound—*clack-clack*clack-clack*—echoed over and over.

“Please, Scoots. He isn’t going to open it.”

“Fuck off, Rainbow Dash. Fuck off.”

A rustle of feathers—hooves slowly clopping away. The door echoed, drowning out the low murmur of the crowded hospital hallway. *clack-clack*clack-clack* Over and over.

Everything smelled sick, and the world seemed too bright, but it wasn’t hard.

Scootaloo knocked until Jerry’s door opened, and, alone, she limped inside.

“As acting ruler of Equestria, I officially pardon the humans Raymond Schaffer and Gerald Hanes.”

“Cadance—”

“They will have full access to the collateral that was taken from them, and are free to roam the country—or leave its boundaries—as they please.”

“Cadance, the 25th Concordat doesn’t—”

“You are magically impotent and Princess Luna is out of commission. By the Laws of Equestria that makes me High Princess, does it not?”

“I’m fi—”

“With all due respect, you are a hostage.” Indicating Raymond’s weapon with an outstretched wing, Cadance, took her place next to the reclining human, levitating a cushion for herself. She looked across the table at her aunt—her elder—and sighed.

The Princess of the Sun looked truly old, and that was rather depressing to the young alicorn… but right then she didn’t have the capacity to really care.

Green light flickered on the edge of her vision, and Cadance flinched. A faint tickling and burning swept across her flanks, and she felt violated. She was far away, and it was very, very dark.

You’re a pretty little princess, aren’t you?

Cadance’s eyes hardened, and she shifted closer to the warmth of her savior. If he or Celestia noticed her momentary… fugue… they didn’t comment on it: Mr. Schaffer rubbed at his forehead, good eye squinting as if in pain, and the Dawnbringer just sat, contemplative, resigned, and, above all, worried.

“The ponies of Canterlot bore witness to the recapture of their fair city, and it wasn’t under the guiding light of the Princesses that they were saved, but beneath a flood of changeling blood—rescued from drowning by two outlanders, a musician, and a comedian.” Cadance flicked an ear behind her, listening for what she knew was not there but haunted her anyway. “They cannot be touched, or the populace will revolt.”

“And what of their crimes? The kidnapping of my sister? Word will spread—”

“Luna is a leper,” the pink alicorn interrupted. “Ponies remember when they are wronged”—“I remember: will always remember”—“sometimes for too long.”

The Savior yawned painfully, stretching his limbs. An arm brushed her. It was safe.

“They will have their demands met,” Celestia whispered, “but genocide is out of the question.”

Pretty, pretty princess.

“Mercy died in the cold, dark below Canterlot,” Cadance muttered to herself—Schaffer heard; twitched his head in her direction, cold, blue eye watching her. They would keep her safe: make them go away.

Disappear.

Poof.

Gone.

So pretty…

“The changelings will face their punishment: one way”—the young alicorn’s violet gaze met the human’s, and he nodded—“or another.”

Celestia watched her, looking for a long time with sad, knowing eyes. ‘The Wise One.’ So, so wise—too wise, maybe, to pay attention to a lost mare, even if she was her niece… wise and pretty.

For a moment, Cadance hated her.

The feeling passed: but the moment felt too long to the official regent of Canterlot Castle. Addressing the human beside her, she spoke once more:

“Go to your partner: you will find your stolen property with him. Do with it what you will, but only after Princess Luna is released. I trust you with my life, and now I am trusting you with hers.” The human nodded slowly and stood. As he walked by, Cadance stopped him, standing to nuzzle his shoulder. He hesitated, but ultimately left, leaving the two immortals alone.

Seeing green, feeling dark and cold and alone, Princess Mi Amore Cadenza faced her elder.

There was still much to talk about.

"Mares and Stallions stand in a row,

Covered in blood—for clan and for gold,

Who won the battle? Few ever know.

And while we wait, the red sky grows cold."

Her mother once had a book: an old book, filled with rhymes from the days before pony unification—the days when the Pegasi were a warlike race. She used to read them to her—as each matriarch had before her—every night when she was a filly, preparing for bed in the city of Cloudsdale. They came back to Dash now, sitting in a sterile hallway watching the door.

The door that opened only once in the last hour, admitting a small orange filly.

The door Gerald Hanes, executioner of immortals, closed and locked ages ago, alone with a body… or, at least, what Rainbow believed to be a body. She had followed him: after the queen was dead; after Raymond took him aside, whispering in his ear. Dash told herself it was because she wanted to give him his knife back—she had it now, blade thick with dried changeling blood. Ponies were looking at her strangely, but Rainbow didn’t care: she was watching the door.

Jer hadn’t seemed to notice her—nor Scootaloo, who tried to latch onto him as he walked down the aisle—and, after paying his silent respects to the yellow stallion (used his hands to close his eyes—deep, dead eyes, leaking blood), he limped away to a closet in the back, leaving everypony…

Well, everypony but Rainbow Dash. She watched him exit the courthouse and come back in with a ragged, gray tarp. She watched him go into the janitorial closet, and she watched him come out: encumbered by a tightly wrapped bundle. He was frowning, dazed and exhausted. The pegasus wanted to help him, but when she got close enough to ask the hoof caught her eye:

A blue hoof, hanging limply from the rumpled folds of Jer’s gray burden.

She decided it would be best to just watch… no matter how much the tired human—the man who helped save their lives—sweated and cursed. Dash had seen enough bodies that day: some split and maimed by her own hooves.

"We lay the dead to rest deep down,

Entombed at sea, won’t touch hard ground.

No dark cave mount, nor earthen town,

Can hold the spirit, the flesh, the aeries’ sound."

He carried the body to their jeep alone. Rainbow remembered seeing the black cloud in the distance—disappearing over the horizon: the last of Chrysalis’s warrior children. Nopony pursued them.

Jer drove and Rainbow followed by air, flying with his knife gripped in her teeth. His path was reckless and circling, but the streets were very nearly empty.

The man stopped only once, and what he did would live in Rainbow’s memory for the rest of her days.

He had just rounded a corner, a wild turn that skidded bumpily along the street, and he slammed on the brakes. A foal lay in the middle of the road—red, with a pink mane. Just a filly: she didn’t even have her cutie mark. From her position on the roof of a nearby building, Rainbow could see her matted, dirty fur; her ribs jutting obscenely through cracked skin.

She was dead. Didn’t even have a cutie mark, and she was dead. Dash remembered vomiting, but didn’t recall for how long. All she knew was that when she looked up again, Jer was kneeling in the road, holding the husk that once played and laughed and lived on those same streets.

He was screaming a name.

The air was clean in the hospital: too clean. Rainbow felt so dirty and the air felt so clean and it was wrong: so wrong. She felt a presence next to her, and a pair of pink hooves encircled her barrel. She glanced at Pinkie Pie, but her eyes invariably found their way back to the door.

“It… It’s gonna be okay, right? It’s all over, now?” the mare whispered. Her mane tickled Rainbow’s right ear, and it twitched involuntarily.

“Yeah, Pinks. It’s over.”

“Where is he, Dashie?”

Rainbow nodded toward the door. “Locked. You take care of the fillies?” Dash felt Pinkie nod, her cheek rubbing against the back of her head.

“They’re upstairs: with Spike. I lost Scootaloo, though. Have you seen her?”

The blue pegasus simply pointed at the door.

“Oh…” Pinkie shifted, turning so she, too, faced the door. “Is… Did you see him? Is he okay?” Screaming a name—a nonsensical name. He was screaming. Dash shuddered, and felt sick to her stomach.

“I saw him.”

Pinkie hugged her tighter. “And?”

Red fur: no cutie mark. He took the body with him, limping and limping up the hospital steps. Two bodies in his lanky arms.

“I don’t know.”

They sat in silence for a time, watching the door. Rainbow thought her pink friend was crying, but wouldn’t look at her. If she looked, then she would cry, too, and Rainbow Dash never cried: never. Ponies came and went, some stopping to mumble a “hello” or ask about the “shaved diamond dog” in the “magic chariot”, wishing the man behind the door well; saying they had seen; saying they believed. Rainbow nodded politely, and she thought Pinkie did, too.

Blue and grey: a father with a paunch wearing the tattered clothes of a working-pony. “Blew right down my street—drew them away from our hiding place.”

A ruffled collar—stained yellowy-green—and a blunted, sparking horn: a tattered noblemare, walking imperiously despite her ragged appearance: “Knocked my head on a pillar and two of them were on me… thought I was dead when a yellow stallion, riding atop a chariot of smoke and metal knocked them away…”

Two foals—pinto and ruddy purple—leaning on each other for support: young ones from Ponyville, tired and scared and far from home. “Ms. Cheerilee is still alive. Sh—we just wanted to say thank you.”

Another stallion: clothed in the heavy armor of a guard. “Buckers shot me twice. Twice! I’d say they destroyed half the city themselves if I didn’t know any better.”

The Element of Loyalty, the Element of Laughter: bloody and battered but both still alive. “We were going to die, and they saved us. HE saved us… saved me…” Rainbow ruffled a wing, feeling the cold steel of Jer’s knife press against her side.

“Do… Do you think they’ll stay?”

“Pinkie…”

“I know what Fussy said, but… but now they have to stay, right? They wouldn’t really leave us… right?”

“Pinks, I—”

“I don’t want Jerry to leave…”

Crazy, the way he screamed: like he was bleeding all of his rage and sorrow into one word, over and over. His knife slid, tickling the underside of her wing, and her tail twitched. The man was strong… insane, but strong… perhaps even stronger than herself.

“No. I don’t want Jerry to leave, either.”

Time blurred together: Twilight was there, limping in whilst her brother led two sooty unicorns through the hall—their parents, they explained. She tried to talk to them, but Rainbow wasn’t listening. She was busy watching the door. Shining Armor was quiet, and while his sister grumbled and growled about “murder” and the “Griffonia Convention”, he sat down next to Pinkie. His parents settled behind him, comforting hooves all ‘round.

“Nopony cares, Twilight.”

Silenced—by who, Rainbow wasn’t sure—she stormed off, and the low murmur of the hospital was all that remained.

Together they watched the door.

"Love lilts upon the breeze—

Love stalks upon the ground.

Slipping softly through the trees,

Love kills and can’t be found."

No. Rainbow didn’t want Jerry to leave at all.

Heavy, erratic hoof-beats echoed through the halls, and Raymond turned the corner from the reception area, an orange mare easily keeping pace beside his limping gait. The murmurs of milling ponies ground to a halt, and Rainbow, in the corner of her eye, saw Shining Armor stand. The human carried his weapon on his back: a sleek, vaguely rectangular object with a molded handhold and metal tube in place of a blade.

It wasn’t sharp, but it was dangerous. Somehow everypony knew that.

Noticing Rainbow and her pony satellites, Applejack silently nudged Raymond with her flank, guiding him toward them. She trotted close to his side. Very close. Her eyes were wide and nervous, flicking left to right as if scanning the room—she pressed closer to the human, perhaps scared he would suddenly vanish. Raymond stopped, towering over them as he watched impassively with his cold, blue eye. His gaze turned toward the unassuming door across the hall, and he limped over to it, leaving Applejack behind. She settled down on Rainbow’s left, keeping a nervous eye on him as he approached Jer’s room.

Lifting one heavy foreleg, he knocked twice, paused, then knocked once more.

“Y’all okay?” Applejack, whispering concernedly. “Where’re Twilight and Fluttershy?”

“Fluttershy’s upstairs with Spike and the fillies, and Twilight’s… somewhere.” Rainbow felt Pinkie shift again, releasing her. “Rarity?”

“With that green stallion from back home. Probably still at the castle: di’n’t catch our chariot.”

Across the hall, Jer’s door opened, and, under the tired watch of six pairs of eyes, Raymond slipped inside.

“What do you mean you won’t transport the body?!”

“Sir, we’re overloaded as it is, an—”

“Don’t give me any of that mino-manure! I just need one cargo-berth back to Ponyville! Do you bucking know—”

“Sir, the line—”

“Fuck the line and fuck you! My friend killed for this city: died for it!”

“There simply isn’t any room. I’m sorry.”

Rarity knew this stallion—young, forest green, average build, crossed drumsticks emblazoned on his flank. He played rhythm for the pianist at the Hayseed in Ponyville. She’d seen him there on her 21st birthday, playing for bits while she had her stereotypical “night out”: courtesy of Pinkie Pie. His name was Cymbal—she knew that, now—and his friend had been called Hearty Chuckle, a comedian who performed at the same bar. Rarity had never been to see his act… she regretted that, now.

“… No, you listen to me! You will make room. I am not leaving until you find an opening!”

“I have to talk to my—”

“I’ll kill your supervisor! Get. Me. A. Space.”

He was angry: grieving in his own, painful way. Horn sparking furiously, Cymbal was up on the service counter, shouting directly into the nervous clerk’s face. He was making a scene. He was breaking down. He was threatening another pony…

… and he had helped save Sweetie Belle’s life.

Decision made, Rarity sauntered in from the sidelines, casually slipping in-between the arguing stallions. “Excuse me,” she tittered, fluttering her eyelashes at the colt behind the counter, “I couldn’t help but overhear your small dilemma, and I was wondering if, perhaps, I could persuade you to find a teensy-weensy bit of room on your huge train for me.” She glanced back at Cymbal. “I mean such a well-to-do, intelligent, and”—she gazed at him sultrily—“handsome stallion such as yourself wouldn’t have a problem with that… would you?”

The colt—a bland brownish color, haggard, exhausted, and most-definitely not handsome—shuddered nervously. “Y-Yes, Ms. Rarity…”

“Oh… so you do know who I am.” Rarity dropped the smile and her eyes became cold. “Good.” She leaned in, eyes narrowing as she brought her face closer to his. “Then this will be much easier: make room on your train for the body of a hero of the state, or I will bring the collective wrath of the princesses down on your head.”

Clip-clopping hooves signaled the quick departure of the clerk: where he went, it was unclear. Fortunately, Rarity was under the impression that her request would be made a reality quite soon.

Smiling hesitantly, the porcelain mare turned back to Cymbal—who, for his part, had stood quietly on the sideline. She expected a smile in return: admiration, perhaps? It wasn't often that an Element of Harmony yelled at somepony... or threatened them. When she looked at him, however, she was surprised to find the green stallion simply staring at her tiredly, his eyes dull and listless. He nodded his head once, matted mane twitching at the steady motion, and left, walking down the line of grieving ponies toward the morgue proper: toward his friend.

Suddenly very unsure of herself, Rarity followed.

The child opened the door, and, at first, Ray didn't know whether to be annoyed or relieved. He liked the kid, of course—he had no problem with children whatsoever—but things were delicate at the moment. He glanced down the hallway toward the reception desk, catching a glint of golden armor before slipping into the hospital room at the behest of the orange filly. It was dark: no windows, and the electric lights were dimmed. Deathly white walls became white floors became green beds, and Raymond stooped low to pick Scootaloo up off the ground.

She didn't struggle: light as a feather, that one.

“Alright?” he grunted quietly as he held her, good eye slowly finding its way to a cushion in the corner of the room... and the man slumped upon it.

“I'm okay,” the pegasus squeaked, shuddering slightly in his arms. She, too, was gazing at the man in the corner, and Ray could feel the concern rolling off her in waves. “But Jerry's pretty beat up.” Her feathers rustled against his ruined coat, and the filly hopped from her perch, buzzing lightly back to the ground. “He keeps falling asleep... and think he was crying before”—she paused, an uncertain frown pursing her lips—“before he opened the door for me.”

Raymond limped past the rumpled hospital beds, noting the loosely-wrapped bundle laying on the far mattress. As he approached his battered companion, the former sergeant felt a sharp twinge in his gut. “Pretty beat up” was definitely an understatement.

Tattered and ragged clothing hung over Gerald's smaller frame, stiff with drying blood: both red and green. His eyes were closed, but the jerky, twitching movement movement beneath his lids betrayed the shorter exterminator's fitful sleep; the pained frown, his lingering nightmares. Hands curled in his bloody lap, Raymond could see the blackened, blistering skin of Jer's right fingers beginning to peel: nails melted away by changeling balefire. His left ear was torn nearly half off his skull, no longer bleeding, while the wound on his leg—the worst of his physical injuries by far—was beginning to leak pus.

Air whistled in and out of Jer's nose.

He was alive, at the very least.

Crouching, the taller human lowered himself to Jer's level. He grabbed the unconscious man's upper arm and shook gently.

“Hey, Asshole,” Ray murmured, watching his companion's face carefully. “Wake up.” A low moan escaped Gerald's lips, and his eyes fluttered open: bloodshot and wet with unshed tears. He stared through Raymond for a time, not quite focusing on anything in particular, but that wasn't worrisome—or, at least, not more worrisome than usual. “Jer? Get a hold of yourself, Corporal.”

Gerald lay still, looking beyond his comrade: beyond the world. The marksman frowned; mentioning rank hadn't gotten a rise out of him... that usually worked. He quickly glanced about the room for inspiration, and his eyes alighted upon an open nylon pouch at the foot of the far bed. A dull silver tube half spilled onto the pristine hospital floor.

“Scootaloo?” A rustle of feathers and the clatter of hesitant hoof-steps brought the girl into view. She was fighting tears. Looking at her—grimacing and wincing and pointedly looking away from Gerald's corpselike pose—Raymond didn't know what to do, so he just smiled as reassuringly as possible and gave her a task: one tinged with hope. “See that pouch over there?”—she looked; nodded—“Bring it here, please, then stand back for a bit.”

Turning away, the orange pegasus quickly obliged, her hooves skidding on a puddle of bodily fluid at the foot of the first bed. Looked like bloody vomit... hopefully not a result of stim overdose. If it was, then, well, what Ray was going to do next would probably kill him. More carefully this time, Scootaloo returned carrying the serum pouch between her outstretched wings. Raymond took it with a brief nod, nudging her back a few paces with his elbow before looking inside the black bag, praying for a working pneumatic syringe.

Two empties lay atop one still untouched canister: a blue one. Raymond smiled, relieved at his—and Jer's—luck. Opaque, azure liquid leaked from the broken needle-tip, but that did little to dampen Ray's mood. Unscrewing the needle cap, he fished a replacement—wrapped in sanitary paper, of course—from a side pocket and replaced it. A tap on the injector took care of any errant air bubbles inside, tentatively ensuring the safety of his counterpart when he pumped him full of performance-altering drugs.

Tentatively...

He knew it would work. Had to...

With an extreme measure of care, he unbuttoned his friend's shirt, revealing deep purple bruises across Jer's ribs and chest: broken bones. A wince sounded behind him, and Ray turned to find Scootaloo peeking around his side, tears in her oversizes violet eyes.

“I thought I told you to stay back.”

“I...”

“Go on... There's nothing you can do.”

“But—”

Ray pushed her back with his free hand: “Go. It'll be okay.” Sniffling, the child backed away, and Schaffer turned back to his dazed partner, searching for his breastplate. He absentmindedly flicked the new needle with a fingertip, hoping it was long enough to get the job done. It was probably fine... God, he hated being so uncertain about these things. Jer was the medic. Jer was the pilot. Ray was just... Sarge...

Sergeant of what? A spiteful schizophrenic? Alien fuck-horses? What?

All he wanted was to see Earth again.

“GUH! G-God! Oh, God!”

Raymond jolted, looking down on the man he'd lived with—on and off—for the past seven years. He was screaming: clawing at his chest, and Raymond was horribly worried his struggling would snap the needle shoved through his left pectoral... huh...

“Oh, God it's inside me! I-I-I can feel it inside me!”

Tracing needle to hand to upper arm, Ray let out a surprised grunt. He didn't remember injecting him. Damn, he must really be out of it.

Arms wrapped around him, corded muscle pressing his rifle into the small of his back, and he was suddenly pulled close to Gerald's face. They were eye-to-eye: Jer's grey gaze manic and burning with fear. He breathed in whistling gasps, and Raymond caught a whiff of something rotten on his breath—blood and bile. They stayed that way, Gerald clutching his brother—his last living family—until his breathing finally began to slow. Ray was unsure of how long it had been: a few seconds? An hour? It didn't matter.

“Inside me...”

“What's inside you, Jer?”

Gerald blinked, and looked at him—really looked—as if for the first time.

“Nothing, Sarge.” He glanced downward and winced. “Well, not exactly nothing.” Raymond smiled, relieved, and carefully slid the stim-needle from Jer's chest. The metal ground wetly against bone, and the wakened corporal coughed violently, dribbling blood and saliva, before beginning to laugh in great, hitching gasps. Ray rose to his feet, looking down on his friend with equal measure of concern and tired contentment. Through the weakening laughter, Jer spoke once more: “You... You tryin' to drug me, Sarge?”

“Yes,” Schaffer answered, backing up just enough to sit on the foot of the nearest bed. A grey tarp shifted and settled heavily next to him, but he ignored it. He knew what—who—was inside, and it could wait. “Glad it worked.”

“I was in a bad place.” Jer glanced around, frowning to himself. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, tracing white lines through dirt and blood, but he didn't seem to be aware of them. “Still am in a bad place. Let's get the fuck outta here.”

The taller human frowned alongside his partner, nodding in affirmation, but he remained sitting. It was getting worse: the dreams, the voices, whatever it was that was going on in his head... and there wasn't much he could do about it. Ray glanced at Jer's leg—his chest and dangling ear—and sighed. They would leave, but he was getting his friend a healer first so; deal with something he could fix.

Ray stood to leave.

“Jer?” a small voice from behind the bed whimpered as he limped away, “Jerry?”

“Ey! Squirt! When'd you get here?” His voice was shaky, and he was still crying, but Jer didn't seem to care. Scootaloo galloped excitedly around the bed and practically tackled the poor man, knocking whatever little breath he had back out of him. To Jer's credit, he only yelped twice from the pain.

“Y-You let me in,” the orange pegasus shouted, indignant. “Don't you remember?” Ray stopped at the door and watched, briefly considering removing the kid from Jer's lap, lest she damage him further. He was clearly in pain, face screwed up in a look of confusion, but when Raymond took a step toward them he waved him off with a twitch of his peeling fingers.

“I've—ah—I've been kinda out of it.” He opened his eyes and gave the kid a winning smirk. “Wha'd I miss: Spike's bachelor party?”

The room quickly filled with tearful laughter and shouting—hoof punches to the shoulder, wincing, crying, and the general sort of post-traumatic merriment. Smiling—rather grimly, in all honesty... he didn't do it nearly enough—Raymond walked out the door and into the hallway beyond, looking for a healer.

“You oughta be dead... should be dead: deserve to be dead!”

“Stop.”

“What? You know what waits for you! Burning! Burning with everyone you ever loved! Just kill the little orange maggot now so you can both just fucking BURN!”

“FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!”

“Jerry? Jerry, are you okay?”

Everything and everyone vying for the attention of the damned man. The imagined and the real and the tortured screaming in-betweeners: relentless. It was maddening...

“I'm okay, kid. Just tired.”

“You were just asleep, silly!” Painful shifting in his lap, and soon he was met by a pair of glistening violet eyes: the peepers of ultimate childlike authority and all-knowiness... and righteous frowns. “You can't sleep now!”

“Jay-Jay, why didn't you kill me?! Why?!”

Jer tried to smile but he couldn't. He couldn't do it anymore. Fire coursed through his veins, keeping him awake while his body and mind raged at him from everywhere. It was like torturing shellfish with a gas heat-lamp under the moon! Like—Like he was the moon, gassing his dead mother's shellfish at midnight!

“I gotta say, Robby. This Weyland guy sounds like a Class 'A' Douche-hack. What, with his so-called 'Better World' campaign?”

“I guess we'll just have to see, my man. We'll just have to see...”

Oh... Oh, he was losing it. This was finally it: when he went completely and utterly shit-balls insane. No! Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, n—

“Jer? You sure you don't remember letting me in?”

Those eyes again. Jer forced himself to look at them. They were so big and round—ruh'ound'ruh'ound—and full of life and shit. He didn't know how, but Jer managed to salvage a workable smile from the depths of his mindless panic.

“N-Nope. I'm not sure of anything at the moment.”

“Y'think trotting your memory would work?”

“Uh-Uh, mayb-be?” Jer coughed into his fist, and was mildly surprised to find blood leaking from him, like a faucet from Hell. Was he dying? He'd leaked worse, right?

“Well, after you opened the door you were standing over there.” She pointed with a hoof—such a tiny, tiny thing—and Jer looked but felt very little. “You were mumbling something and wouldn't look at me—”

Pictures in his head. Two bleeding arms and flesh and hard, white bone: crushing the life out of something small and orange and screaming. There was a lot of screaming. All the time, now. So much it made it hard to hear the—

“—were pacing back and forth and there was a call on the ra—”

“In other news, President Sandusky is increasing national guard presence outside the Washington D.C. Area. A bit late, if you ask me, though. Got the bastard cornered.”

“Jerreeee! It's inside me! Get it out, Jerreeeeeee!”

“Son, leave them. That's an order.”

“—so when there was this big flash in the center of the room, you—”

Sydney was a watery grave: a Class VII. Spires of bug resin rose above the cloud-layer, founded on the broken buildings of a once proud Earth city, fueled by the bodies of planet's children. Jer saw it from above, in a dropship heading back into the atmosphere... his squad was alive, then. First Sergeant Santos was shouting into the COM, talking to dead men.

“Chi Battalion is lost. Pull out now, Pilot!”

“We can't! There's been breach on the landing ship! They're inside!”

“Wipe the city now! We can't waste this chance!”

“With all due respect Lieutenant, fuck you. There's got to be at least seventy men down th—”

Shouting. A struggle. Jer remembered how it felt in his hands: the detonator. Every one was different, and that one—the first one—was truly unique.

“C-Corporal?”

“I'll—”

“—do it...”

“What was that, Jerry?”

Gerald paused, still looking into those authoritative, violet eyes. “Nothing.”

“O-kaayyyy... Anyway, you told me to put the suits under the bed, so I—” Jer twitched, interrupting the little pegasus in his lap once more.

“Suits? What suits?” Gerald breathed, suddenly grabbing the filly by her forelegs and lifting her up to eye-level. She said suits. He knew that was what she said because she said it: just then. Was it true?!

Scootaloo rolled her eyes, not even trying to hide her irritation anymore—and clearly over being worried about Jer's injuries, it seemed. “The space suits. Duh!”

There were no words...

… but the human still tried:

“Bu—How—h-hwhen?—I—They're u-under?”

He dropped Scoots to the ground, and, lurching from his place against the wall, he crawled to the nearest bed. An errant sheet hung from the bedside, obscuring his view of what was underneath: several, light bundles that looked decidedly like robes stolen from three rather unlucky angels. Jer latched onto them—both with his hands and his ailing, broken mind—and dragged one of them to his chest, wincing happily at the thick, rough material pressing against his ribs. The perfectly rounded globe of the headpiece twinkled under the hospital lights like something from a dream, and as pristine white slowly stained red, Jer found that he could smile for real.

Scootaloo was talking but the human couldn't hear her.

Their plan could work, now.

They—Raymond—could go home.

He could work again! It was possible!

Gerald Hanes had something new to focus on, and, gradually, the voices faded beneath the radio-waves: blatherings of history and music.

“I think we're gonna win, Mikey. Yeah, yeah, I know that look, but... I just got a feeling, y'know? We're gonna win, and everything's gonna be all right.”