Shadowmare: Watch Your Back
"We need to have a plan so that we know what we're deviating from."
- Thunder Speed, Shadowmare.
The beat of their wings was the only sound to mark their passing. To the east, the lights of Manehattan twinkled like stars trying to outdo their counterparts in the sky. As tempting as it was to glance in their direction, Griff knew better. The lights would spoil his night-vision, and cut his effectiveness in half.
He'd never heard the end of it.
“Talons out,” ordered their flight leader – a grizzled griffin by the name of Gustav. Gustav was a lifer – a member of the company who had unfailingly turned down promotion to a comfy managerial position so as to remain a field operative. One rarely saw his like in the Consortium – after all, what griffin in their right mind would turn down an opportunity to earn more credits?
They all chorused their acknowledgement of his orders, their claws flexing.
One of the small power stations run by the Apple Group had gone dark recently. Suspecting foul play, the board had dispatched them to investigate. It seemed a bit fishy to Griff, but the corporation had agreed to the Company's fee, and so they had been sent out. A full flight of griffins seemed like overkill when it came to essentially restarting a generator. Which meant that Apple was expecting trouble.
Probably shadowmare styled trouble.
Griff clicked his tongue, the sound lost amidst the steady beats of his wings as he held his position to the left of Gustav. Shadowmares were always a hassle to deal with – being a rather motley collection of individuals with no real shared goal or purpose made them fairly unpredictable. You never knew exactly what you'd run into when going up against a team of 'runners.
He'd heard a great number of stories about various 'runner teams the flight had tangled with the past. One relied on a pair of minotaurs, whilst another consisted of just three unicorns. Another was made up of two earth ponies, a pegasus, a donkey and a diamond dog of all things.
“Hey nugget, eyes up,” barked Gustav, startling Griff out of his thoughts. The young mercenary nodded, wondering how the flight leader had known. He always seemed to know. Maybe it was a leader thing?
“Yessir,” he answered automatically, as the elder griffin glanced his way and nodded.
“Remember your training, and you'll do fine,” he grunted, before focusing on the sky ahead, following a flight path only his cybernetic eyes could see. “Alright, the station's just ahead. Warbirds 3 and 4, you're up. Give us a flyover. If anything's up, we'll move to support.”
“Roger,” the two griffins responded, peeling away from the formation to begin their approach. Griff watched their movements, squinting in the hope of seeing better. Faint lights from the station offered barely any illumination, but it was enough when coupled with the moon and stars. Warbird 3, a sleek brown griffon with black feathers named Glinda, took point. Her lover, Gemma – the one with the white feathers – took up the wingmate position: behind and to the left of the lead. The duo were the fastest fliers in the flight, and were often relied upon for recon runs.
“Watch and learn nugget – this is how we fly!” called Glinda with a grin, and with a flap of her wings dove down towards the power station. Gemma followed close behind.
Griff watched them go as Gustav sighed.
“...like morons,” observed Warbird 2 – Gustav's wingmate Gordon, currently flying to their leader's right. He hadn't been happy with Gustav taking Griff under his wing, but had limited his distaste for the younger griffin to merely shooting him dark looks whenever they were near one another. From what Griff had gathered, the flight's number 2 was worried that Gustav might choose to make Griff his replacement as flight lead – which was patently ridiculous.
Giff had just joined Warbird flight – this was his first mission with them. And until he got his first kill or his first pay-check, he would be nothing but a nugget to them. It's how they worked. The young griffon rolled his eyes. Well, as long as Warbird 2 could remain professional in the field, he could indulge his little paranoia all he wanted for all Griff cared.
“Passing over the site now,” radioed in Glinda. Griff couldn't see the two griffins anymore – their shapes gone in the dark as they flew over their target, just beyond the reach of the few lights dotted around the compound. “No activity. Something's up alright,” she reported. “Circling around.”
Griff could just make out Gustav nodding to himself as he replied over their communications. “OK. Warbirds 5 and 6, lead us in. 3 and 4, you're on patrol.” Acknowledgements of the order filled the channel as the two griffins flying in silence behind Griff increased their speed and dropped down low, taking point whilst he, Gustav and Gordon formed a rough triangle behind them.
“Emergency power's on,” observed Warbird 5, his spotted fur becoming visible as he neared the lights. He landed silently, killing his momentum with a single beat of his wings. The Warbirds weren't the best fliers in the Company, but they were experts compared to Griff. He just knew how to fly and soar. Taking off still required him to build up some momentum running, as opposed to Gustav who could take off vertically with a single motion of his wings.
Griff would be just as good in time. He knew it.
“Nugget, stick close. You hear anything, duck and cover,” Gustav ordered, heading in to land.
Griff narrowed his eyes but nodded, before remembering the flight leader couldn't see him. “Roger that,” he replied, trying not to sound as sullen as he felt. He must have failed because he could hear Gordon stifle a chuckle.
A few seconds later and Griff's claws dug into the dirt of the compound as he landed. He bit back a yelp as his forward momentum turned out greater than he had anticipated, dragging him forwards to faceplant into the ground.
So much for making a good first impression. He could hear Gordon chortling as Glinda chimed in over their communicators. “Did the nugget just bite the dust?”
“Yeeeep,” replied Gordon and Warbird 6 (Gunther, his name was Gunther!) in unison.
Standing back up, glad that the dim light hid his embarrassed flush, Griff just shot a dark look at the two griffins.
Gustav rolled his glowing green eyes. “Cut the chatter. 5 and 6, head for the main generator building. Gordon, nugget, you're on over-watch with me.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gunther answered, moving up to the doors leading into the main building along with his wingmate. Even with his casual attitude, Griff could see his head swinging from side to side, scanning their surroundings.
“Oi nugget, get your gun out!” snapped Gordon over the channel, making him wince and swiftly reach for his rifle. It had completely slipped his mind. “And make sure the safety is off!” the other griffin added, earning himself a short glare from the flight's youngest member. He wasn't an utter idiot, he knew the basics!
“Door seems untampered. Not detecting any wires or enchantments,” reported Warbird 5 (dammit, what was his name again?!). “Entering the building,” he relayed before pushing the door open.
As last words go, they were definitively terrible.
The door was halfway through swinging inwards when something exploded, fire and shrapnel engulfing Warbird 5. An eagle cry of alarm and pain rang out across the channel as he died, Gunther immediately diving to one side to avoid the blast himself.
“Spiked!” cried Gemma suddenly, white smoke streaking into the sky from one of the windows on the other side of the building. It arced through the air before exploding as it found it's target.
On his HUD, Griff saw Gemma's life-signs flat-line as Glinda screeched in fury, diving down at the source of the rocket. The young griffin winced at the sound as it was soon accompanied by a crash of glass and the sounds of a struggle.
Gustav cursed, bounding forwards to the ruins of the doorway, over the smoking remains of Warbird 5, Gordon right behind him. “Nugget, stay here with 6 and keep our retreat clear!” he ordered before vanishing into the darkness within the building along with Gordon. Gunfire sounded from somewhere upstairs where Glinda was undoubtedly tearing into the enemy.
“Inside, now!” cried Gunther, waving Griff over as he too entered the darkened building. “Come on nugget! You're exposed out there!” the griffin called from inside. A lancing beam of red magic burst up from the roof, swaying from side to side as if the firer was chasing down a target.
Griff felt himself step back despite himself, eyes wide. This wasn't training. This was real. This was magic and technology arrayed against him. This was two dead flight mates.
“NOW NUGGET!” roared Warbird 6, and the young griffin's training kicked in. Griff scampered into the building in a flash, his rifle clutched in quivering claws. He took a deep breath, held it for ten seconds, then exhaled. His shaking subsided. Gunther nodded at him, sidling up to the wall to the left of the doorway, pistols in both claws. “Now keep your eyes open, and you see anything without an IFF tag – shoot it.”
Griff nodded to show he understood, steeling himself as he pressed up against the wall to the right of the doorway. He aimed around the ruined doorframe, scanning the open space at the heart of the compound through his gun's smart-link. One of the most common gun-mods, the smart-link synced up with a wielder’s implants to let them see through the gun's sights. It tended to increase accuracy by 20% on average, though it also allowed folks to check around corners and over walls without exposing their heads.
Everything seemed clear...though Griff found his gaze always returning to the charred corpse of Warbird 5, sprawled out in front of the building where it had been blown back by the explosion. “What was that?” he asked, forcing himself to look away.
“The blast? Low tech it seems. No electronics or wires – Gerry was good at finding those,” Gunther answered, one pistol slowly sweeping the...courtyard? What was the right term for that empty space between buildings in a compound? Plaza? Griff couldn't recall, and it was bugging him for some reason. “Blast was small, and not particularly directed. Probably a cluster of grenades. Old ones too. Damn it, that kind of low tech savvy means we got shadowmares,” Gunther continued, cursing quietly as more gunfire sounded from above them. “Lead, what's going on?”
There was something akin to a heavy crash, and dust trickled from the ceiling onto Griff's beak as the reply came. “They have a minotaur,” Gustav said flatly. There was an eagle cry and more gunfire, followed by a meaty thud. “Well, Glinda has that one covered. She also took out the pony with the rocket launcher when she entered. There's a unicorn pinned down behind a makeshift barricade flinging magic at us,” the flight lead reported before being drowned out in a wash of squealing static.
Yep. Definitively a shadowmare team.
“Easy nugget, they'll be fine,” Gunther said, noticing the look on the younger griffin's face. “They've taken on worse.”
That was when the ceiling collapsed.
Dust and smoke filled the room, spilling out the doorway into the...whatever that empty space between buildings was called (DAMMIT why couldn't he remember what that was called?!). Something akin to an air horn roared as Griff coughed, stumbling outside. He pulled his scarf up to his beak, glad that at least the helmets they wore had visors as he spun to see what had happened.
Gunther was flung out of the dust cloud, crashing into a heap behind him. Griff gaped at the fallen griffin. His neck had been broken. Gulping, Griff backed away from the doorway as something large shifted forwards. An iron-shod hoof slammed into the ground. Pistons hissed and servos groaned. Red lenses blazed in the dark as the air horn roared again.
Griff felt his wings slump in numb shock as a fully cybered minotaur emerged from the smoke, carelessly shunting its way through the too-small doorway, concrete crumbling. The...thing...was more machine than minotaur – he wasn't sure if it didn't count as a robot now. He took a few nervous steps back, the rifle in his claw puny and useless.
The thing before him was a tank. A walking tank. And it would tank an anti-tank gun to bring it down, not the rubbish piece of metal he was holding. This was insane. This kind of shadowmare team...you didn't send them on a milk run like sabotaging a generator!
A sound like corrugated sheets of metal being scraped together filled the air. Griff blanched as he realised the monster in front of him was laughing. It raised a fist as it stepped forwards once more, it's footsteps making the ground tremble. Griff could only stand and stare, his body refusing to obey the voice screaming in his head for him to run, to fly.
“FLY YOU FOOL!” screamed Gustav, slamming into the back of the minotaur, making the metal behemoth stagger forwards a few steps and snapping Griff out of his paralysis. Talons rose and fell, slashing at the cables and wires packed in between armour plates. The cybernetic nightmare reared back, trying to reach the griffin.
Griff was already running, wings flapping in a blind panic. This whole thing had been a set-up. It had to have been. A beam of red energy speared past him, leaving a line of pain along his flank behind. The air horn roared again, mingling with a griffin's screech.
One, two, three!
Griff was airborne faster than he had ever believed himself possible. There was no finesse – this was a mad dash for safety. It was all about speed now. Beams of red stabbed into the night sky as the young griffin flapped for his life. He didn't look back, even as he saw Gustav's life-signs begin to waver on his HUD. The avian screeches became quieter as he fought to gain altitude. If he could get up above what few clouds there were, the shadowmares wouldn't be able to shoot him down.
Of course, that's when the unicorn's parting shot seared straight through his right wing. Griff let out an animal cry of pain, a blend of falcon screech and lion roar. He felt himself beginning to drop. At this height, the fall was sure to kill him. Something feral gripped onto his thoughts. Something that would reach at any possibility, any chance of survival, no matter how foolish.
He flailed out with his left claw, trying to grab the useless limb. Talons brushed past feathers, and he gripped tightly. The pain that should have had him screaming was a mere dull throb, it's severity pushed aside by the fear of the imminent crash. Holding onto his injured wing, Griff stretched it out, biting back a groan of pain.
His fall slowed as he caught more air in his feathers, entering into a dive instead. The ground continued to rush up to him.
Calmly now. Just like a normal dive.
He twisted his wing as he began to pull up, aiming himself away from the ground. If he kept his wing stiff, he could probably glide on it for a few hours before having to crash land. He levelled out just below the clouds, heading away from the power station. He could make out the lights of Manehattan on the horizon. Yes, good. A star to guide him by.
He lost consciousness twenty minutes later.
A white ceiling greeted his yellow eyes. Griff blinked, and his vision swirled. There was a dull ache at the back of his head. He couldn't move. Still...he wasn't dead at least. That had to count for something, right?
“He's awake!” called a female from beyond his line of sight. He heard trotting. A pony then. Her face peeked in from the extreme right of his vision. Ah. He was in a hospital bed. Probably in a cast. He blinked again and tried to focus on the...well, he supposed the nurse's face. She was...turquoise. With a pale green mane. Alright, so he hadn't gone blind from...whatever had landed him here in the first place. “Can you hear me?” the pony asked.
It took far too much effort than he remembered, but Griff manged to nod.
The nurse beamed at him. “Perfect! We were quite worried when they brought you in – told us to keep you on muscle relaxants to avoid any flailing,” she said, reaching aside for something. The griffin felt something slide out of his arm. Ah...that's why he couldn't move. “Motor functions should return to you shortly. Just rest easy for now, I'll go get the manager.” And with that she was gone.
So...he was in a hospital. He was regaining sense in his limbs. Right, he'd been injured...where? Manehattan! No, that was wrong...they had gone past Manehattan...ah...oh. Power station. Right.
Griff winced as he remembered. Here and now, it all seemed so very distant and unreal. He could feel his talon's clench. He could still see Gunther's dead body, half crushed by the minotaur. He could hear Gemma's cry as she was blown out the sky. So...this is what it meant to be a mercenary. To live with this, day in and day out. Griff's throat was dry.
That was one hell of a way to start things off.
“Welcome back,” congratulated a gruff voice as a griffin in a suit materialised by his side, peering down at him through narrowed eyes. There was a datajack implanted into his face, framing the edge of his right eye.
Griff forced himself to sit up. A suit meant the griffin beside him was someone with a desk job – which meant he had a higher salary, and therefore outranked him. He tried to speak, but his tongue still felt like a lead weight.
The suited griffin waved his claw dismissively. “Let's skip the pleasantries. We've reviewed the data in your helmet's memory, so you don't need to worry about a debrief. You got roughed up good, so we went ahead and got you patched up. We'll be deducting the cost of your medical care from your salary.” All the words came out swiftly and formally, like they were a rehearsed speech. Probably were.
Griff nodded to show he understood. It was Company procedure after all.
“You got lucky,” the suit stated flatly. “The Apple Group was more than happy to reimburse us for what happened to the Warbirds – someone used them to get at us, so they were partly to blame. As per Company policy, a cut of that was granted to the team involved – yours was just enough to cover the costs of that new wing.”
That made Griff start. He twisted around to glance at his wings. One was still the same – dark grey feathers over lighter grey ones. The other...was similar, in that it was the same, only reinforced by what looked like an exoskeleton. The wing still looked and felt like flesh and blood...they must have used vat-grown flesh to patch up the hole the magic beam had left behind.
Why the armour though? It was a nice touch, and welcome too, but surely that amount of metal would weigh him down and ruin his balance? He tried to flex it, but it refused to move. The suit noticed where his attention was and sighed before clearing his throat, drawing Griff's eyes to him once more.
“In any case, the nurse has cleared you of any lasting damage. The cyberware was implanted without any trouble, so you'll be discharged within the day. Until then, I suggest you read this,” the griffin said, dropping a small datastick onto Griff's lap.
The young griffin stared at it. Another assignment? Already? “B-but...flight...” he managed to make out through his numb tongue.
“Ah right. The Warbirds have been disbanded following that little operation,” the suit revealed with a shrug. “You managed to make it out somehow, so the Company saw it fit to promote you to consultant. A nice easy job to let you get used to that,” he added, nodding at Griff's new cyberware.
Griff just nodded back, his mind trying to catch up. The Warbirds were gone – his first flight, a team he had known for barely more than two weeks. One of STSC's finest, gone just like that. Yet despite that, he hadn't been fired. Someone must have been in a good mood during that board meeting. A rookie was a perfect scapegoat for an operation gone bad.
Instead he'd been promoted to the rank of consultant. It was a fancy term for mercenary, which meant he was now cleared for international deployments without supervision. Normally, that would have been thrilling news. Gustav and Gunther would have congratulated him, and Glinda would have offered to get him a drink after work hours...
...he didn't even have anyone to grieve with anymore.
The suit stood there in silence for a moment before nodding again. “Right, if that's all, good day Mister Griff,” he said politely before taking his leave. Griff continued to stare at the datastick in his lap.
It was an hour before he moved, reaching out to pick the device up. Holding it gently in his talons, he plugged it into the datajack he had in his neck, information materialising in his sight. Maybe...maybe if he focused on the job, he could distract himself?
Yeah...yeah that sounded right.
Author's Note
And here we go.