BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

The buzzing was back and blaring off and on into my ear. My better faculties tried to deny it, to somehow willing go deaf and slip back into the simple sweetness of dreams. Dreams were good. Dreams hold things I understand and things I love. Things people say I'm fucked in the head for liking. All those people. All those people than can BUR-

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

Anger. Rage. Again. Fuck.

Willie Pete achingly raised himself up out of the bed. The plain and spartan decoration of his bedroom only helped the Celestia-damned alarm clock to echo around and ring louder into his weary ears. Feeling spiteful, he slammed his hoof onto the reset button with an extra furious vengeance. He held a pithy smirk before considering he might have broken the damn thing, but decided to worry later. It was already 8:14 and he was determined that he would not be late on today of all days. Breakfast, being a disgustingly necessary thing to have on a work day, was granted a few moments of his thin time. Daisies and scrambled eggs would be good, but take too much effort... He swung open the fridge to look inside and he found to his delight a leftover hayburger from two nights ago. Maybe delight was a bit of a strong word, but it would definitely do. The microwave counted down the longest ninety seconds of the past month as Willie practically trotted in place in anticipation. Finally finished, he plated the thing, smothered it in rooster sauce for an almost prescient spice, and gnawed it down while assembling his uniform. Flame retardant jumpsuit, on the hook by the door. Respirator, side table. Hood, on the couch for some reason. Goggles... Where are the fucking goggles?! An agonizing six minutes minutes of frantic searching later and he found them just under the couch. Note to self, never down a six pack of cider before a Big Day. Still cursing himself for the potential for tardiness, he locked the door and took to the clouds.

Willie loves the sky, as all pegasi do, but it's the ground beneath that calls to him. Thatched roofs, market stalls, and all the tiny little ponies beneath catch his attention in minute detail as he imagines it all burning in toxic fatal hellfire. Poor ponies screaming, running about with flaming coats, gasping for air in the anoxic cloud of death filling the streets of Ponyville.

How easily they all could burn, he thought. A run over here, a run over there, a nice low-altitude spread right over the town market and everyone and everything would burn.

The pegasus sighed. He knew his thoughts were wrong... Okay, they're completely mental and totally fucked, but how can he help it? Thirty-five years ago, he was a nervous young colt called upon by his country to served in the armed forces. Equestria had gotten involved in the conflict in Southeast Haysia a few years ago, and the draft had been put into real use again. Though he hadn't yet found his special talent, he was more than old enough in age to be called upon. A week later, and he had his new home in training camp at Cloudsdale AFB with forty-nine other scared young ponies. He did well enough in his flight training, above average in fact. But in was in week six, payload delivery, when he found himself. Spraying concentrated hellfire down onto mannequins on the proving ground filled him with a deep and loving joy like none he had ever known before. Upon deployment overseas, he was put into the 15th Incendiary Division, usually known as the famous White Devils. He was the top flier, rising through the ranks so quickly he had to start denying promotions just to make sure he was still out there doing runs every day. He trained battalions of ponies in the use of flame weaponry, and by war's end had racked up a confirmed kill count high enough to rival the legendary sniper Snowy Shot.

Then the media came in, making every housewife and wingchair general an expert about what the Big Bad War was doing to all the fillies and colts of the armed forces. All the civilians were just so surprised to find out that war is hell and a lot of ponies die in it. Never mind the fact that about seven times more ponies died in the last Big War from this country alone, but no, this was so much worse. Popular opinion turned faster than a speeding cart wheel, veterans came back to rotten fruit and hocked spit, and before long all Equestrian forces were retreating, leaving the Southern Capital to fall. Within months, a unilateral world treaty had been passed, banning the use of many of the more esoteric weapons of the war. Yet in all this deep questioning about the worth of pony lives, no one thought about Willie Pete. Honorably discharged with a chest full of medals when all the Incendiary Divisions were shut for good, he was left a man without a purpose and nowhere to turn but government housing. After a few well publicized "incidents" the common people finally took notice of the fact that all those foalkillers were in fact ordinary ponies like they. But even in light of the Fillydelphia Minefield Disaster, it still took another eight years for the Outdated Specializations Act to take effect, by which time Willie had two suicide attempts, twelve arrests, and twenty pending charges of arson under his wing. Thankfully since he'd hurt no one, he was released under the Act and given a useful job. Kinda...

Willie scanned over the day's big plans: razing a section of forest to the ground for farmland. Not nearly as much glory as turning an enemy encampment to ash, but nevertheless today was going to be His Day. The section in question had a tree gap a hundred feet wide from the forest meant to be kept, all desired property had been removed, and a few crates of surplus, military-grade white phosphorus were being delivered HQ by the Royal Guard. Zooming down to the ground, he cheerily entered the shack for his Big Day.

Author's Note

All thanks to Naga for helping me think of this. More to come, just not today.