The dull thud of rain hammering upon the hardened material was almost rhythmic, as if it were a drum beat -- as random as nature itself yet as structured as the mechanized beast that it fell upon. The darkened clouds from which the rain fell carried with them ash and dirt, falling with the water as mud, splattering on shattered concrete and rubble. The air above the clouds was black – swirling like a tortured soul – it was as if the entire heavens were dark – scorched by what seemed like an age of war, fighting, and pollution. The only light that managed to break through the ashen hell came from the burning remains of decimated cities – another casualty.
The orange glitter from the far-off fires glinted in the pale blue glow of the domed visor on the head of a bulky figure standing atop a mountain of blackened skulls. The ash, mud, and rain splattered against the heavily scratched and battered dark blue suit of armour. At around seven feet tall, it was by far the only thing still standing tall on the remains of a mile-wide kill zone – that did not even cover the entire battlefield. The broad pauldrons atop its shoulders had once borne an emblem, though it had been worn away – and with it the last sliver of dedication to any long-since abandoned ties or connections. The thick ceramic torso armour was chipped and scorched in places, as if an almighty hoof had slammed into it, cracking the area around the impact. On either side of the chest-plate were metal broaches, secured directly into the armour that held a tattered, dirty red scrap of cloth that acted as a cape that draped over the huge shoulders of the figure. Above the cape, held by several different straps, mounted on the frame of the armour was a large, dirty-white, metal-cloth container, with more scraps of smaller cloth and tiny trinkets hanging from it. Strapped to the left of the gigantic backpack was a long-barrelled, dark grey rifle, with a scope screwed onto the top – though it did not fit properly. On the small of the beast’s back was a small pouch, which secured a lengthy, curved sword horizontally across its spine. A black hilt, with layers of duct-tape wrapped around the handle and a silver yet dirty blade, still sharp enough to cut through flesh – as evidenced by the blood that had dried upon it, and small bits of internal organs skewered on it. There was a belt that held the pouch, which ran around to the front of the suit, where it also held a length of hardened material around the forehooves. The material was long enough to be the bottom half of a long-coat, yet it was too solid to be of any fashionable interest – not that fashion meant anything, any longer.
The servos in the legs of the suit quietly buzzed as they lowered. In two metal gauntlets a weapon was held – massive, in proportion to a pony, but in comparison to the suit’s bulky stature was rather small. It had a small stock, two short barrels and a large magazine, holding around forty pellets of dense metal.
Then, a click, a whirr and a small, resonant beep before a release of pressurized air could be heard by any living thing that had not been deafened by the screams of the dying. Two blue metal hooves reached up to the helmet, and slowly lifted it from the rest of the armour. The helmet developed a blue glow of a hue similar to the colour of the barding and floated beside the pony. A black veil descended upon the face of the user, falling from the helmet. A long, dark mane obscured the real features of the seemingly equine operator. The figure lifted its hoof to its mouth, and whispered something to a small microphone concealed within the gauntlet. The reply was much louder than the voice from within the armoured shell.
“Confirmed, Ay-Tee-Ay-Yue Covenant is already in your sector and en-route, please stand-by,”
The figure lowered its arm, tapping a small screen near the microphone. Within seconds, the rumble of aircraft engines echoed through the barren, red landscape. The suit started on its way down the hill of skulls – the craniums of long-dead men and women crunching underfoot. From above a ridge, a tank-sized aircraft drifted upwards – four large jet engines propelling the craft above the ground and towards the hill. The glass-fronted cabin was concealed by dark-coloured glass. But the helmet’s enhanced reality heads up display was not required to know what the ship meant – the prospect of a few minutes rest, before being thrown back onto another battlefield. The down force of the giant thrusters blew dust from beneath the craft, and the suit’s automatic safety measures kicked in – the clawed feet of the armour dug into the dirt, holding their ground. Though the suit itself could do nothing more to hide the identity of the user – the black veil of hair was swept backwards with the wind. The face of a young pony was revealed – perhaps not much younger than a filly, nor old enough to have earned her cutie mark. Her brown eyes had large, black bags under them, and her small, freckled nose appeared to have been broken more than once. Across her left cheek were three bruises – seemingly caused not by an animal’s claws, nor vicious fall – but by her own hooves. The hovercraft drifted closer, and lowered itself towards the ground, turning by activating additional engines on the sides, to open a ramp from its right side. The dark-yellow craft did not seem as if it were originally designed for the purpose it was serving. In past days, it could have been a civilian vehicle – a taxi, or ambulance – but now it’s reinforced walls and side-mounted flak cannons served only one purpose – salvation.
